


And the Soul Stands Still

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (discussion of) off-screen homophobia, Alternate Universe - Summer Camp, Ghosts, M/M, fairytales - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-25
Updated: 2016-10-25
Packaged: 2018-08-24 16:31:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 49,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8379442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Welcome to Camp Forestress! If you fall anywhere on the LGBTQ+ spectrum, this camp is for you. Ready to have the best summer of your life? You can expect hikes to one of Montana’s prettiest hidden lakes, lessons in swordfighting, runaway kids, and a friendly ghost to freeze you in time. If you’re a hopeless romantic, love awaits! It will bloom when you least expect it and come to you in the form of a blue-eyed fellow counselor who’s ready to sweep you off your feet (maybe even literally). Pack your bags and join Dean and his surrogate family as they struggle to unstick themselves in time and accept love when it feels right.





	1. i.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, friends!
> 
> I have two people I need to thank, and I'd like to do it here. Thank you to Hayley for betaing this even though she was beyond busy and doing an amazing job, AS ALWAYS. One of my bestest friends and the best partner in crime.  
> An even bigger thank you to Rae, my artist and friend. She was here during the entire journey - I ranted about the fic to her, then ranted about my original artist not getting back to me, and then she was the star that picked it up as a pinch hit. Her love for this fic, something that I'm so very grateful for, gives me life.
> 
> Secondly, a disclaimer. This is a fic about a camp for LGBTQ+ youth, and even though most of it happens pre-camp, I tried to include as many identities and orientations (both sexual and romantic). However, I'm still just a white lesbian who doesn't know where she falls on the romantic spectrum. So if you see something problematic, please do let me know - all I ask is that you do so politely. ♥
> 
> Most importantly, Rae SPOILED me, so: [HERE](http://8tracks.com/padaleckhi/and-the-soul-stands-still-a-playlist) (or on tumblr [here](http://padaleckhi.tumblr.com/post/152307957462/playlist-for-the-fic-and-the-soul-stands-still)) is an amazing fanmix, and [HERE](http://padaleckhi.tumblr.com/post/152307955627/and-the-soul-stands-still-fic-by-viviansface-art) is the ABSOLUTELY BREATHTAKING art!

 

 

The California sun is hot on Dean's shoulders.

He can't wait to get out of it and find some shade, yet at the same time, he's reluctant. It will mean they're done hauling Sam's stuff from the car and into his and Jess' new apartment, and it will mean that Dean will be invited inside for a beer and then expected to leave.

Goodbyes are difficult. Movies sure tell you so, but it's different to experience them live; Dean would rather not.

He's sweating by the time the last box of ridiculously heavy textbooks – they must weight a freaking ton – is tucked away in the new apartment's hallway and Sam and Jess share a victory kiss while he stands awkwardly in the doorway.

“I should leave you guys to it,” he says as his breath starts to even out. He suddenly feels out of place: he's wearing the same kind of worn out clothes (an old grey t-shirt and jeans that are starting to tear at the knees) Sam and Jess are, but the apartment is so evidently _not his_ he's wary about stepping in, now that all the stuff's in and the moving's officially done.

Sam is happy at Stanford and Dean knows as much. He loves Jess, even, he can't imagine anyone else next to his little brother, but to leave them there, _together_ , in an apartment? Dean feels like he's not a part of Sam's life anymore – common sense, their past and the actual facts aside. Sam – he’s always been the only real family Dean had, what with both their parents gone pretty early on in their lives (earlier than they deserved, but drunk drivers don't discriminate). Now what?

Jess, leaning against Sam's hip, smiles at him. She's half here and half in her world with Sam; she's still brushing her thumb against his shoulder. “How 'bout you stay for dinner or beer?” _And then you'll be expected to leave._

“Yeah, dude,” Sam chimes in quickly. “You could stay overnight as well, before you drive back to Kansas.”

“You guys sure that's okay with you? First night at your apartment and all?”

Sam smiles. “Jess, would we even be here without Dean?” he asks with his eyes still on his older brother.

“Nope,” Jess says. She mirrors Sam's smile and before Dean can realize it, she's grabbing his arm and pulling him in.

Of course it was stupid to think that he wouldn't be welcome – he's home wherever Sam is.

 

 

///

 

 

Jess can work miracles in the kitchen (while joking about gender stereotypes) and Dean's belly is absolutely full before the sun starts to set over the horizon.

Even the sunsets are weirdly different here in California: they feel lighter somehow, whereas in Kansas, they always felt heavy. To Dean, that was a blanket settling over his shoulders, but he can tell that heaviness was always a burden for Sam. He wants lighter sunsets and Dean wouldn't wish anything else for him.

They're sitting on the balcony, where Sam already put a potted plant (half dead, but he keeps saying it will come back to life here), and it's beer time. Jess has disappeared inside to pour herself a glass of wine, but she's been gone for a good few minutes: she's giving them space, that's what she's doing. Dean is scared to take that chance.

(He really does not like goodbyes. They always feel final even when they're not.)

“So, you have any plans for the summer?” Sam asks, leaning back in his chair and knocking his half-empty bottle of beer against his knee.

Dean squints into the setting sun, his own bottle only a few sips away from empty. “You mean besides enjoying my freedom without your farts in my apartment?”

Sam laughs. “Yeah, besides that.”

“Nothin', really.” Dean's words are a little slurred; he's not even tipsy but he lets it happen. He always lets his voice slip into a sort of accent once he's got a bottle of something in his hand. “I got fired.”

“You what?” Sam tries to laugh again but when he sees the serious expression on Dean's face, his own evens out as well and grows just as serious.

Dean didn't have that big a job – nothing too important either. He worked at Bobby Singer's garage, and he did love the job, but it was in a shithole of a town and anyway – it wasn't where Dean wanted to be. He thinks.

“Well, that's not the right word,” he says, looking away, “Bobby packed his bags and decided to move on.”

“Just like that? Dude. Why didn't you tell me?”

“It only happened a coupla days ago.” Dean shrugs, taking another sip of his beer – a big one, the last one. “'S not that big of a deal. Bobby always said that the place didn't make enough money, you know that.” Though he also used to say that cars weren't just business – they were a love affair. At some point, it probably stops being true – maybe when he's old and can't cover his rent, he'll understand.

“Well, yeah,” Sam says, now fully turning to Dean on his chair. “But still. Do you need any, y'know, financial help or anything? You could stay with us for a while - “

“No, no. Nah, man.” Dean shakes his head. “I'm not doing that to you. You guys just got that apartment, you deserve to spend some time together, alone. I have some money saved, I'll be just fine until I find something else.”

“But with your job gone, won't you -”

It hangs in the air alright – won't you be alone, with me gone? That's what Sam wanted to ask and Dean understands. Hell, he's been asking himself that same question over and over again ever since Sam brought up the idea of moving to California for good. And he _will_ be alone, that's the disgusting part.

Some people would think that his life has never been much – just a job to get him by, his brother by his side, a couple of friends he could hang out with. There was Charlie, but she was always off exploring the world, going on adventures (and most recently, setting up and deciding to run a summer camp for LGBTQ+ kids) - the corporate job that got her by didn't count. There was Bobby but sometimes the age gap showed – he was way too old to understand all of Dean. There were Ash, Benny, so many people he could count on, but somehow, he still felt left behind. No, _they_ were all ahead – loving, living. They had someone to go home to after their bar crawl – not Dean. Dean. Not doing what he wanted to do – whatever that was, not that he ever figured it out; not being with whom he wanted to be – whoever that was, girl or boy, not that he'd recognize an opportunity if it slapped him in the face.

Long story short? There was something missing. Something that Dean could afford not to think about as long as he was distracted with something else. Sam and Jess on long Friday evenings, his job on long tiring days.

Something else other than opportunity has slapped Dean in the face – both those distractions have come and gone. And there's that _something missing_ now, glaring right at him. And what does one do about something like that?

“I'll be fine,” Dean grumbles stubbornly, though he knows one thing for sure:

He will avoid calling Sam because he'll think it would make him seem weak. He'll miss Sam and it will eat him up because he'll refuse to admit it to himself. He'll be in hell. Yay.

“Whatever you say,” Sam shrugs because he knows better. Once Dean gets stuck, there's no unsticking him just because you want to.

“It's nice here,” Dean says to change the subject, but a part of him wants to get up and go. It's frustrating, sometimes, to think they'll expect you to go, and then find out they wouldn't mind if you stayed. But that's weak, too, isn't it?

“Yeah,” Sam says, bending under the subject change. “I mean, Jess picked it. But you know Jess.”

“Jess is pretty fucking awesome.”

“Tell me about it.” And there's this smile on Sam's face. Almost melancholy, as if he was an old man already, thinking back to the love of his life – to see such an expression is sad and heartwarming at the same time.

“I should head to bed,” Dean murmurs, placing his empty bottle of beer on the small round table they got out, its legs still wrapped in the paper they used so it wouldn't get too damaged during the move.

Sam looks up at him, his face changing momentarily; wonder and concern, the two things that will eventually crease Sam's face, Dean's sure of it. “'Course, man. I think I'll stay out a little bit.”

“I'll send Jess,” Dean says as he gets up and briefly pats Sam's shoulder, as if too much contact would mean weakness too. Here's the thing: Sam has always been a constant and suddenly he won't be, not in the same way. Here's the thing: Dean is terrified of change and he doesn't know what to do with it. “Night, Sammy.”

And you know there's something new in the air when Sam doesn't bitch about the nickname.

 

 

///

 

 

By nine in the morning the next day, Dean's already a few miles away from Sam's shining new Palo Alto apartment. And that's saying something: he's the opposite of an early bird.

The early morning sleepiness – you know, the kind that only happens at seven or earlier – helped stop any kind of teary goodbyes, though: no talk about Sam leaving home, about calling, anything. Lots of warm hugs (Jess still warm from the bed, Sam warm because the dude _always_ is) and smiles. Dean almost felt light as he put his '67 Impala in reverse and took the turn out of the apartment building's small parking lot. The sun was already on its way up.

It continues its journey just like Dean, and the hotter the day gets, the lower Dean's spirits sink.

Listen, he knows it's pathetic. He's closer to being thirty than twenty and if you asked him why it mattered so much that Sam had moved away, he wouldn't have been able to tell you. Sometimes, these things just happen: something changes and there's a hollowness in your chest. Dean feels that way, at least, and who can disregard that? (Well, he can. And he will. As always. But he'll still wear the talisman Sam gave him when he was still just a little ten year old.)

For lunch, he stops by the same diner where they spent an hour or so on their way to Palo Alto, and he's doing fine. He's not even that sad, mind you.

The waitress doesn't recognize him (though it's the same one, Dean remembers her) and it's generally a nice day out – he's got his car and he's actually thinking about the future.

Well. He's just thinking about what he could do with his free time now, before he gets a new job – he could finally work on his car. It's both a beauty and a beast, and though it runs smoothly it needs some fixing, it always does. Maybe he could convince Bobby to let him into the garage before he rents it or sells it and Dean could spend his days there, dirty and oily and – and alone.

His phone rings before his thoughts can get any further than that.

It's Charlie – he has a picture set up for her, her short red curls framing her face as she's stuffing it with a giant slice of pizza – and Dean doesn't even consider not picking up. Aside from Sam and maybe Benny, Charlie is definitely his best friend.

“Hey, _princessa_ ,” he says with a fake accent, expecting a laugh. His fingers are still greasy from the fries he had with his burger and he starts to lick them clean. The laugh never comes, though.

“Dean,” she says, deadpan, informal.

“Yeah, I know my own name,” he tells her, still jokingly.

“Dean,” she says again, “Are you still in California? Please tell me you're back in Kansas.”

“I'm still in California.” His brow furrows a little and he gets up from his seat in the diner, leaving a ten dollar bill on the table as he walks out. The sun attacks him viciously and he shields his eyes with his free hand immediately. “Is everything alright?”

“No. No no no no. Everything is terrible.”

“O...kay? That's a bit too dramatic even for you.”

“I'm gay, Dean. Drama is what I do best.”

“I think that'd be mac and cheese for you, not drama,” he jokes, because – well, if Charlie's joking despite whatever tragedy that's happened, it can't be that bad, right?

“Yeah, well, if everything continues to be this terrible, I'll never make another mac and cheese ever again because I'll be dead.”

“Now you're scaring me a little, Charlie,” he tells her. He's trying to sound gentle but he knows that doesn't really work over the phone for him, but at least he's trying. “What's wrong?”

She whines. “I need you to not be in California.”

“Well, bad news. I have quite a few miles to drive yet, dude.”

“When'll you be back? I need to talk to you.”

“Seriously, can't you just tell me what's going on? I'm worried.”

Another whine. “I need to talk to you about something _super_ important. But you'll just grumble and say no if I ask you on the phone. It's about my camp.”

Ah, yes, Charlie's camp. The one she lovingly calls _The Camp Sappho_ even though its official name is much more generic. (Camp Forestress. “As in a fortress in a forest, get it?”) She just “likes the word sappho” so it's stuck as a working title. Dean was surprised and still is in awe that Charlie managed to put something like this together – she's always been big about voicing her opinion on all LGBTQ+ issues but when she came up with the idea of running a camp for teenagers in the community, no one really believed she could get it going.

They still lived in the south, and there's not a lot of summer camps specifically for LGBTQ+ kids _in general_ , let alone in Kansas – it seemed more like a fantasy or a dream when she first mentioned it.

The dream is definitely awaiting a load of kids in Montana in less than two weeks, and okay, Dean's not _really_ a part of it, but his reserved spot as Charlie's best friend allows him to feel incredibly proud of her.

“What about your camp?” he asks her now, but she just grumbles. He sighs. “Jesus, okay. I can meet you tomorrow evening, maybe. Is that okay?”

“Well, it would be better if it was today but what can I do. I'll be at my office all day tomorrow, just come along.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “You mean the spare room in your apartment?”

“Precisely,” she says, once again completely deadpan. Charlie just _might_ do a poker face best, not mac and cheese. “Drive safely, okay?”

“You're saying that just because you want to use me for _something_ and you couldn't if I had a horrible car accident.”

“Hey, can you blame me?”

“Not really,” Dean laughs, making his way across the diner's parking lot and towards his car. He slides into the driver's seat. Even though he only left the car for less than thirty minutes, it's already unbearably hot inside and he _hates_ running the AC on the Impala. It ruins its charm. Fuck. He turns the AC on. “I'll see you tomorrow, _princessa_.”

“I'll see you tomorrow, Dean.”

Okay, so maybe he was feeling a little down before the phone call, eating the burger alone and not having been recognized by the waitress and all.

But he's got a _plan_ now, an actual _something_ to do and get ready for the second he gets back to his Sam-less apartment. He's definitely feeling better now.

 

 

///

 

 

Dean prefers to sleep during the night on a long drive, but he actually only naps – for the first time in his life, the Impala and the motels he passes seem scary. Because he's alone. God, what was it about being completely pathetic?

Anyway, his napping-only means that he gets home relatively early. He's got a couple of hours to kill before he goes to see Charlie so he takes the responsible approach. He stops at the grocery store to buy some food – even though it's pre-cooked and not the healthy kind – and he takes a good long shower when he actually gets home.

All the while, he does his best to ignore the sudden emptiness of the apartment. Sam might not have always been present, often spending the weekend with Jess or just going out, but the apartment was always filled with his stuff – stupid jogging clothes and shoes, colognes, _hair_ , and the like. None of that is still there now. (Except for maybe the hair, which Dean would rather not focus on.)

So Dean does his best to avoid that even in his thoughts. He barely pays attention to his surroundings and because he doesn't have anyone to talk to during his meal, he stubbornly hums one Metallica song after another.

He's as relieved to leave the apartment as he thought he would be, but that's okay.

Dean actually walks to Charlie's apartment – it's not far and it's through his favorite part of Lawrence. Rows of family houses at first, a sort of suburb, and then a few apartment buildings, one of them Charlie's. He finds them as light as California sunsets, even though the asphalt's cracked and tires have pressed their marks into it here and there when it was so hot in Kansas it started to melt. Still, not heavy at all. Not a burden.

Instead of ringing the bell or knocking, he lets himself in with Charlie's spare key, which is not very wisely placed under the fire extinguisher in the hallway.

“Charlie!” he yells when he closes the door behind him. The apartment is even messier than usual – messier than Dean's. Something really must be going on.

“Office!” Charlie yells back.

Dean walks through the apartment, nearly tripping over Charlie's Siamese cat, Samson, but he eventually makes it to the very back where there's a curtain draped over the doorframe instead of, you know, an actual door. Obviously an office look.

Except, of course, not even the room itself looks anything like an office – that's more of an ongoing joke. The room is decorated with various vintage posters, mashed with movie posters. There are rows of books, all filled with Funko Pops at the front, and instead of a proper office table, there's just a _giant_ crimson red, worn-down couch.

Charlie's slouched down on it, her laptop propped up on her stomach. Her hair is a glorious mess and she looks like she hasn't seen daylight in days.

“Wow, may this day go down in history as the day when you looked worse than I do when I have a hangover,” Dean says instead of a greeting.

“Very funny, top-notch humor, I'd slow clap you straight into hell if I had the energy,” she mumbles, but she's clearly not mad. Dean's not sure Charlie is even capable of being mad. She gets frustrated a lot, but mad? Dean has never seen her throw a fit.

“So what's the problem?” he asks as he steps into the room and walks up to the couch.

Just as he's starting to think that she won't even look at him or further acknowledge his presence, Charlie closes her laptop and looks up at him, solemn. “Gilda broke up with me.”

Dean lets out a deep, “Ohh...”

“Well, we kind of broke up with each other, if that makes sense,” she continues. She places the laptop on the floor and scoots to let Dean sit beside her. She moves up on the couch herself, sitting cross-legged now. The bones in her neck _crack_ really, really loudly when she stretches.

“Oh?” Dean tries now, because he's learned from experience that Charlie doesn't respond to actual normal questions very well.

She sighs. “Whatever. I'm not even that sad about it. Not the breaking up part.”

Dean's officially ran all out of _oh's_ so he opts to wait for a continuation.

“She was one of my Camp Sappho counselors,” she admits after a short while, looking away from Dean. And listen, Dean may be pathetic and all that, but he's certainly not dumb. He just _chooses_ to play dumb because _no_. He can see where this is going and he doesn't like it.

“That's tough, man,” he says, desperately faking comfort. “What are you gonna do now? I'm sure if you put up an ad somewhere on the internet...” He gestures vaguely. He knows fuck all about the internet.

“That's kind of the problem here,” she says, still staring straight ahead, gesturing with her hands. Her nails probably used to be painted blue but they're extremely chipped and bitten now, probably from nerves. “The Camp starts in a _week and a half_. Besides, money's tight. Gilda was doing it more as a favor. There's no way in hell a stranger would take that bait. No way in hell.”

“I don't know what to say to that.” Yep, definitely still playing dumb. Because, still _no_.

“Dean,” Charlie says, much like she did over the phone. She finally turns to him, and she places her hand over his arm. “Dean. I'm sure that at some point in the past I've done something that you said _I owe you_ to. Am I right?”

“Don't recall,” he says automatically. “Listen, Charlie --”

“It's only for three weeks,” she interrupts him. Dean suspects that she was actually writing this speech in advance on her laptop when he came in because she looks so confident. “And it would really be a huge favor, I know that, but I would _owe you_ , big time. Whatever you need. Listen, listen. You're out of your old job, and Sam just moved out. A summer camp would be a good distraction, right? The food and the cabins are all paid for and you'd be getting a little bit of money out of it as well. Just a little bit, but Dean, seriously --”

“Stop,” Dean cuts her off. For a second, Charlie thinks she's won, but when she sees the disgusted expression on Dean's face, she whines. “A summer camp filled with _teenagers_? In what world is that a good distraction?”

“I know you like to pretend you hate kids and adolescents,” she starts, “but we both know you're actually really good with them. We _both_ know that. Come on.”

And the thing is, Charlie's right. She's one hundred percent right. Dean likes talking to children, playing with them, and teenagers are no different most of the time, unless they're going nuts when puberty truly hits them hard.

The part of him that he usually uses as his go-to is still saying _no_ , but there's also the second part of him: the one that was so in awe of Charlie for putting a camp like this together. God, he remembers being a teen and desperately wanting to find a place in the world (and that was long before he even had a label for who he was). He was confused at best and a camp like this would have helped tremendously, so… so there's also a part of him that's saying _yes_. Rather loudly.

“I...” he trails off because he doesn't have a good argument. There's nothing that can beat _you're out of your old job_ and _Sam just moved out_. Those are as big as the Statue of Liberty.

“Say you'll do it,” she says, shuffling close to him, her knees knocking against his legs. “Say you'll do it. Three weeks in Montana. Come on.”

“Oh, God,” Dean murmurs before he covers Charlie's hand with his own. “I guess I'll do it. You seriously owe me big time.”

Charlie squeaks and she leans over, planting a quick, hard kiss on Dean's cheek. “You're the bestest best friend in the world. Thank you thank you thank you.”

“I hate this. And tell Gilda I hate her too.”

“Oh, I'm not talking to Gilda. She broke my heart, I just don't have the mental capacity to deal with that right now,” she says, the words rolling off her tongue easily.

Dean knows she means it, though, and she returns her kiss; his lands in her short hair.

“Anyway,” she says, patting Dean's thigh in excitement, suddenly bouncy. The problem's been solved and she's back to Camp Captain mode. “I'll email you our schedule. And all the lists and doc sheets and everything else you might need. Gilda was head of arts and crafts and I'm sure you'll be just fantastic at that.”

Dean groans. “I regret it already.” (The part saying _no_ keeps growing smaller and smaller, though.)

“Shut up, you'll do great.” Charlie leans into him. “Anyway. It's still a few days before we have to leave – have I told you you need to be there three days early – so. Movie night? Seriously. My heart needs mending.”

Dean sighs but he pulls her close. “Whatever you say, _princessa_.”

 

 

///

 

 

Okay, so the part that kept saying _no_ is still alive and well. Right now, it's telling Dean that he's not _actually_ relieved, not to mention _excited_ , to have this kind of plan for at least half of the summer. It keeps telling him that this is the worst idea he's ever had.

He ignores that part. He packs – two duffel bags and a lot of old cassettes that he can play in the car on his drive to Montana. And a map, god, he can't forget the map.

This keeps him efficiently busy: like a princess, he spends a good chunk of his time picking the right shirts and jeans, even though they all look alike at the end of the day. He adds in some swimtrunks and then throws in a pair of shorts as an afterthought, even though he's pretty sure he would never use those. In his haste, he nearly forgets to hang the amulet Sam gave him around his neck, but he catches himself in time to grab it before he runs out the door.

According to his schedule, which says that he should leave Kansas around seven in the evening at least to get to Montana around early afternoon the next day, he's actually a few minutes late by the time he locks the apartment and runs down the stairs and to his car. Throwing his duffel bags in the trunk, he mindlessly caresses the Impala's side. As much as he wanted to work on her this summer, he's glad he won't have to do it in this lonely town; not for a while at least.

Putting on some Zep the second he gets the engine running – _purring_ , really – he wishes he could be riding with Charlie. She flew, though, and met up with some of the counselors already, so he has to make the journey alone.

This whole thing is a wonder to him, honestly – the counselors live all over the United States (he's actually pretty sure one of them is flying from _England_ , just for this) and from what he'd gathered, Charlie's met all of them online. Dean is the only one she knows in real life. Which is terrifying and kind of amazing at the same time. They all fall somewhere on the spectrum, and, as wonderful as that will be for the kids, Dean honestly can't imagine being in an environment like that _himself_ : he doesn't go to Pride festivals, mostly keeps to himself, and a lot of his friends are straight as far as he knows.

It excites him, the idea that he'll be with his own kind for three whole weeks, as much as he doesn't want to admit it.

Somewhere along the way, he starts humming along with the music that's playing, and he even puts on some Bon Jovi for a change.

Halfway through his journey, he calls Sam.

They've been talking, texting and calling, basically every day. But halfway to Montana, it's the first time he doesn't feel sad after hanging up.

“You drive safely, don't get overexcited,” Sam tells him with laughter hiding in his voice. “And don't you dare stop missin' me, ‘cause I sure miss you.”

“You too, little brother,” Dean says, but they end the call with laughter.

Dean's heart isn't as heavy when he crosses another state line and gets a little closer to the place that will be his home for the next twenty-one or so days. A little closer to admitting he can and will be okay.

 

 

///

 

 

Dean knows he's at the right place when he passes a big sign that says CAMP FORESTRESS. Right underneath, in sharpie, it says 'camp sappho', all lower case, but it's so tiny Dean can't see it from the car. The big sign is good enough.

It hangs in the summer wind much like these signs always do in horror movies, but strangely enough, it doesn't give him a funky Friday the 13th vibe.

He drives straight underneath it and continues down the road.

The surroundings have changed around him: the highway got stolen by a dirty road that's never seen asphalt, and instead of a horizon that opened wide around him, he slowly but surely enters an area enclosed by a forest. There should be a lake somewhere nearby according to Charlie, but then again, there's always a lake somewhere nearby when you're in Montana.

It only takes Dean about five minutes to make it to the camp since passing the sign.

The strange thing is that it looks so… _civil_. So _modern_. For some reason, the idea of a summer camp always held a few distinct features in Dean's mind: no cell phone signal, no internet connection, probably no proper showers or toilets, like something set in the wilderness. Of course, it's nothing like that.

From the small parking lot that takes up minimal space a few feet away from what seems to be the main entrance, he can see a few cabins. They're all painted soft purple and they _seem_ vintage, but neat and freshly built at the same time, the true charm of renovation.

There's only two other spots taken on the parking lot – occupied by the world's ugliest pimpmobile, and by a beat-up Honda that's probably seen better days.

Dean parks and kills the engine. The air in the car is stuffy despite the open windows, but he stays put for a few more seconds. Pointlessly, he stares at the cabins, trying to figure out which one will be his new home for the next couple of weeks, as his hands grip the wheel. He's still excited, but he's nervous at the same time, and he needs to take a deep breath to reorganize his thoughts.

Despite his late departure from Kansas, he's still pretty early: he doubts everyone else arrived in just two cars.

“Here we go,” he says to himself and he finally opens the door, doing so with the characteristic creak of _oldness_.

After a second of considering, he decides to leave his duffel bags in the car for the time being, wanting to check everything out first. The air _outside_ of the car is just as stuffy, if not more, as if threatening him with a storm, and he rolls the sleeves of his plaid overshirt up.

It only takes a few steps to get to the main door. Dean clears his throat before he tries the handle and opens it.

There's only one person inside, sitting by the table cleverly titled 'reception' at the front, reading a book. It kind of takes Dean by surprise.

Obviously, he knew that someone else was here. Obviously, he could have expected that someone to be a guy. _This guy, though_. There's something ethereal about him, though that word doesn't even occur to Dean; his reflex is just to stare. The guy could be around Dean's age. His dark hair (almost black at first glance) is a mess, sticking out every which way, and as he reads, his tongue is poked up and laid against his upper lip. He's got his feet propped up on the table – Charlie obviously isn't here yet, she would kill him for that, whoever he is – and the book is in his lap. Dean can't see what it is. The guy is wearing the plainest of clothes, too – a grey-ish shirt worn thin, black pants, old Converse sneakers.

And yet. Dean never went through Charlie's files because he was too lazy so he has no idea who the other counselors are, but he feels like he knows him. Genuinely knows him.

It's a surprise, but it's the kind of surprise you feel when you finally get to catch up with your favorite friend unexpectedly.

“Hey,” Dean croaks even though his steps were loud and this door creaked as well. The guy must have heard him, but he was giving Dean a chance to introduce himself – it's only now that his eyes shoot up from the book.

He smiles. The guy smiles, and it creases the skin around his eyes. Genuine laughter lines at this age. Beautiful in a way Dean never expected. There's a bit of stubble on the guy's face and his eyes are a piercing blue. You'd expect them to be cold like icebergs but even though they're cold, they're ocean cold – like the ocean when you get to go in it on the hottest day of the summer.

“Hi!” he exclaims, “You must be the latest addition to our team.”

“That'd be me, yeah.”

The guy closes the book without putting a bookmark in it, and he places it on the reception table. He gets up and the shirt slides a little bit down his body. It's casual and comfortable and Dean can't stop looking.

“Aaron's here with me, just went to find the toilets since they're not connected to the reception and – yes. Hi,” he says again and as he gets to Dean, he actually reaches out with his hand. “I'm Castiel. Cas for short.”

Dean finally looks away – well, only to look down at _Castiel's_ hand. It looks baby smooth with a vein running up his arm, and Dean's suddenly embarrassed about his hands, rubbed rawer than usual with oil and cars and manual work. He takes Cas', though, and shakes it quickly. He hopes he makes up for the briefness with his smile.

“I'm Dean. Token best friend recruited at the last minute.”

“Thanks for helping us out,” Castiel says and he hooks his thumbs in the pockets of his pants. _How._ How can that look good in 2016.

“No problem,” Dean murmurs, wondering if he should announce that he also falls on the spectrum – as bisexual as they come – or if he shouldn't even mention it. He decides on the latter. “So Aaron's the one with the pimpmobile out there?” he asks instead, his tone conversational.

The smile on Castiel's face widens. “Oh, no. That one's mine. Aaron's the one with the Honda and also the one who'd never even look at my car so I guess you two already agree on something.”

Dean doesn't even need to check in a mirror to know that his ears just turned a violent red. “Shit, man. I'm sorry.”

“It's fine,” Castiel waves his hand in dismissal. “I'm aware my car's not to everyone's tastes.”

But Dean's ears still feel hot.

Thankfully, the door creaks and bangs closed again, which saves Dean from another lame attempt to recover from this faux-pas. He turns around, just to be met with – well, it must be Aaron, since there's no one else around. His hair is a hazelnut color, though the sun coming in through the window makes it shine golden here and there. He's wearing a sweater despite the heat, and he smiles as genuinely as Cas did – it's only two people but Dean's already having an oh-my-god-everyone's-so-nice moment.

“This is the life saver,” Castiel says and he puts his arm across Dean's shoulder, as if presenting him proudly. It's such a free-spirited gesture it makes Dean's knees weak.

“Oh, hello there,” Aaron smiles. To Dean's embarrassment, he also offers his hand for Dean to shake – unfortunate, considering that his started to sweat violently the second Cas touched him.

Despite that, he takes it and tries to smile his best smile – the one he uses when he's suffering on the inside. “Dean.”

“Aaron,” he says, his hand soft around Dean's. “If you could use they/them pronouns for me, that'd be awesome.”

“Oh,” Dean says, taken a little aback– slapping himself mentally for assuming Aaron must be a he. His blush deepens. “Yeah, of course.”

Their conversation is abruptly cut short by three cars arriving in a row, the last of them a giant Jeep. They all stop in the parking lot and the Jeep nearly bumps against Dean's Impala, which, hello, heart attack at an early age, but whoever the driver is, they manage to hold their own and nothing happens. All of them – Cas, Aaron and Dean – leave the reception but stay near the door, as if they’re guarding the place.

Charlie is the first one to jump out of the Jeep.

“Sorry sorry sorry,” she says to Dean, though she's turned towards the Impala and she pats it lovingly. “This was the only car they were renting out. I'm _sorry_. Hi. Hello.”

Dean waves his hand in dismissal much like Cas did – though he's just trying to seem chill about his car even though his initial thoughts were to throw the Jeep into the pits of Mount Doom – and smiles.

He watches with interest as all the staff, the counselors and the cooks and all the rest, slowly emerge from their cars. There's a lot of them – and they're all smiling, joking, as if they know each other well even though Charlie is the one dot that ties them all together.

Dean can't wait to meet them.


	2. ii.

For a moment, there is just a mess of voices. Everyone wants to introduce themselves and in return, everyone wants to get to know each other. They talk over each other, names are exchanged far too quickly to remember, and somehow, there's lots of laughter.

Charlie goes around like the host of a big New Year’s party and her obligation, greeting everyone individually.

Because Dean hangs back, not sure how to introduce himself, he welcomes it when she makes her way towards him and gives him a long hug instead of a short hello. He hugs her back and briefly kisses her temple. Charlie is the one person Dean has never minded being affectionate with.

“Did you get here okay, big boy?” she asks him as she gently bumps him in the shoulder, a big wide smile on her face.

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Dude, this place looks awesome.”

She beams at him: that was obviously what she wanted to hear. “You haven't even seen the best parts yet,” she tells him excitedly, bouncing on her heels. “Grand tour happening in a bit after you guys all introduce yourselves. I don't want to go around shaking your hands for you, so, get on it.”

Dean assesses the situation before him, looking over the mass of bodies. “I already met Cas and Aaron, does that count?”

Charlie rolls her eyes. “Get on it.”

“Right, yeah, sure,” he nods, hands in pockets.

As Charlie leaves and moves on to another person, Dean feels the familiar knot of anxiety tie itself around his stomach. He doesn't know any of these people, though they sure seem to know each other somehow, and he doesn't know how to approach them. He knows how to approach people when he wants something from them, and he knows how to approach girls (though God, he is a disaster with boys), but he doesn't know how to do it when it's just for… friend-making. How does one even do that?

The afternoon sun is hot and high in the sky and it’s baking Dean alive.

For a few more seconds, he allows himself to stare at the group of people in front of him. When Cas gives him a look over the shoulder of a young woman with hazel-brown hair, it stirs him to life.

Okay, he can do this. He'll just go up to someone and introduce himself. It'll be fine. He remembers Cas putting an arm around him and he tries to kid himself that he's perfectly capable of doing that, too.

In the end, he picks the hazel-brown haired woman. She's left standing alone, checking something on her phone, and even though that indicates that she wants a moment of privacy, Dean can't handle infiltrating a group standing nearby without a word of invitation.

He walks up to her in a fake-confident manner and opens his mouth before he can change his mind or chicken out.

“Hey there,” he says, and when she looks up from her phone, he's actually scared she will smack him across the mouth because she gives him such a nasty look.

She casually looks back down at her phone and finishes typing her message, locks her phone, and only then does she look up at him again. “Has anyone ever told you it's rather rude to interrupt someone in the middle of something with _hey there_?” she asks him. Her British accent is actually not _quite_ British – it's a weird mix of American and British, but the Britishness is definitely there. So he managed to find the one from England, probably jet-legged. Amazing.

“Nope, guess it's just you,” he says, still a bit scared.

She smiles at him, though, as if it was a test and he passed. Her test is apparently your qualification in bitchiness.

“I'm Bela,” she tells him, but doesn't actually reach out with her hand for a handshake, nor does she indicate that a hug would be in order. She's obviously not as affectionate as Charlie _or_ as friendly as Cas, but her smile is warm enough for Dean not to mind.

“Dean,” he introduces himself, waving a little awkwardly with his left hand.

“Ah, the token best friend,” she muses, stuffing her phone in the back pocket of her jeans. She crosses her arms across her chest and looks him up and down. “Well, I suppose it could be worse.”

“Likewise,” Dean agrees, returning the look.

Bela is much more intense than the rest of them, but she treats Dean like an old friend right away. She's witty and snarky and doesn't protect anyone from it, Dean included, and somehow that makes him feel like he's part of the group.

The group itself, as he finds out when he finally makes his rounds much like Charlie, introducing himself over and over again, is diverse and they all fit together - and not just because they're all here to entertain a group of LGBTQ+ youth for three weeks.

There's Victor, who shares Dean's love for cars; he looks older than the rest of them but he's still in Police Academy with a year left to go. His handshake is firm as if to say _you're stuck with us now_. Dean likes him right away.

There's Dorothy, who keeps at Charlie's side most of the time: Dean's heard about her before (as most of them have heard about _him_ ), she's one of Charlie's closest friends. As far as he knows, she was supposed to spend her summer roadtripping across the country. She’s an adventurer for sure, but it's actually quite nice to see her by Charlie's side. Dean doesn't think Charlie _sees_ it, but the way Dorothy looks at her is very similar to how Sam looks at Jess sometimes. A lot of the time. To think they're meeting in real life for the first time makes him giggle. And they keep trying to tell you that you can't find real friends (and more) online. Yeah, right.

The biggest surprise comes with Ellen and Jo, who are the only ones Dean knows – except he had no clue they would be here. Jo, even though she's a bit younger than Dean, pretty much grew up with him, until her dad passed away and she moved to Nebraska with her mom. They lost touch after that – Dean a teenager with his head in the clouds and Jo still a kid when she had to leave. The world often turns out to be such a tiny space – what's the real statistical probability of Jo talking to Charlie on an online forum and then reuniting with Dean because of that? Yeah.

It goes a little like –

“Wait, _Jo_?” Dean exclaims when he approaches her and he _knows_ it's the Jo from his childhood when she turns around with a frown. She recognizes him immediately.

“Holy shit, Dean!” she yells, not quite a squee but almost, and she throws her arms around his neck right away, and he holds her. He feels like spinning her around, but then he notices Ellen.

Ellen hugs him, too – there are a couple more wrinkles decorating her face and she looks a little bit more tired than she used to in Dean's memory, but she is as warm as he remembers. They make this place feel like home and he doesn't even struggle with meeting and socializing with the others afterwards.

There are a couple more – there aren't many campers (Dean knows there should be around a dozen kids arriving), but there are lots of staff. He didn't understand _why_ at first, but Charlie explained that, even though it meant paying each of the counselors a smaller amount of money, it also meant that the kids get a more individual approach, which Dean likes.

The last one Dean gets to shake hands with is Kevin, who knows Charlie from LARP. He's hyper and all over the place and certainly talks _a lot_ – after about a minute, Dean knows that he wants to be an engineer but in his free time he's into martial arts, like, a lot, and he's pretty much here to show the kids how to protect themselves.

“While, you know, making it fun, since we don't really want to talk about _hey, you might need to know this because homophobes exist and some of them are super violent about it._ There'll be a couple of sword lessons if you want to join in,” he winks at Dean.

“Yeah, no, I don't know,” Dean fidgets because _god_ does he want to, but he also doesn't want to pop anyone's eye out with a sword, so.

So Kevin is the last one Dean gets to know. He's here for the 'help the kids protect themselves' part, obviously, and Victor is here to pretty much be the maintenance guy. Ellen is here to cook (and as far as Dean recalls, she is an _excellent_ cook), but everyone else is here as a counselor. Including Dean. Which is a ridiculous thought at first, but looking at their group, he's just about the right amount of weird to fit right in.

After they finally wrap up all the introducing and chatting, the afternoon's slipped into an early evening, and Dean hears Dorothy says, “Hey, maybe you should say something, welcome them and all,” to Charlie.

Charlie is a natural-born leader, but the thing is that she doesn't know this yet. She fidgets and shuffles and it takes her a second before she makes herself stand in front of all of them and clear her throat to get their attention. She blushes with their eyes all trained on her.

“So, guys. Welcome to Camp Forestress. First of all, thank you so much for doing this and helping me out.”

“Darling, you're paying us to do it,” Bela says lovingly and Dean snickers.

“Yeah, okay, but I'm not paying you much. I mean, I'm pretty sure I'm paying you less than the cost of your plane ticket here, Bela.”

Bela waves her hand in dismissal, obviously the main gesture around here.

“So, yeah, thank you. I've been here before, obviously, to check out the premises and all, and I'll show you around in just a moment. I just wanted to say that I'm trying to create a safe space here. Every single one of you is part of the LGBT community, yes, even you, Ellen, don't go frowning at me,” she jokes when Ellen starts to protest – but she is the token supportive parent just like Dean is the token best friend. “So, thanks for going out of your way and joining me to show these kids that while it may be a struggle sometimes, it's not just normal but damn good to be something other than straight. Thanks.”

“Or cis,” Aaron says easily, a smile on their lips.

“Yes, thank you. Or cis.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean can see Cas pull Aaron closer to him and jokingly ruffle their hair with his hand, to which Aaron doesn't even react. So they definitely know each other.

After this short speech, which actually did make Dean a little emotional and suddenly glad that he agreed to do this, Charlie takes them on the grand tour of the camp.

The premises are not too large but not too small either – they definitely won't be bumping into each other too much. Near the main entrance is the cafeteria that still needs setting up and the kitchen, and just right of that is a small shed. Before they get to the cabins, there's the one-storey building which Dean's told will be the arts and crafts room, among others. They also get a peek at the space behind the cabins – a wide sandy space where Kevin will be able to have his swordfighting lessons.

 _Then_ they get to the cabins, finally. The ones standing on the left and closer to the woods belong to the staff and those on the right will be the campers' home.

(Which is probably a smart decision, given that the kids would have to sneak directly by the staff's cabins to get to the woods during the night. But let's be real here, they'll attempt it anyway.)

The cabins themselves look even better up-close. Germ free and not like they'll collapse over your ears if you so much as take a heavier step. The grass has been mowed and everything looks incredibly clean. The only thing that freaks Dean out a little are the showers, which are placed in two different cabins – one for the staff and one for the campers once again – as, according to Charlie, the plumbing here is ancient and she didn't have the money to get showers in each individual cabin.

So, that's a bit wild in Dean's opinion, but other than that, everything looks amazing. There's only one dent in all this beauty and that's the ugly-ass graffiti on the back wall of the very last cabin that says 'GET OUT' in wonky red spray paint. Still, even despite Charlie's grumblings about that, the camp looks fantastic.

Just peachy, until, of course, Charlie pulls Dean aside with a serious expression on her face as they start back to the parking lot and the main entrance.

“So, I'm about to assign you guys each a cabin,” she tells him quietly, not wanting the others to hear. “The thing is, I'm kinda out of cabins.”

“What does _that_ mean?” Dean asks with a raised eyebrow and Charlie shushes him because apparently, he was being too loud.

“It means that Gilda was supposed to stay with me, as in, in the same bed, if you catch my drift, but it's not like I'm gonna invite you there. You're a big dude, we wouldn't fit.”

They've shared beds before, to be honest. But Dean can guess that the camp beds won't be as big as the queen-sized beauty Charlie has in her apartment.

“And you couldn't tell me that beforehand?” he squeaks accusingly. “What am I supposed to do, sleep in Baby?” he asks, jamming his thumb in the general direction of his car. “Thanks a lot.”

“No!” Charlie hisses, squeezing Dean's forearm. “I'll put you in a cabin with two beds or something but like, I just wanted to let you know, dude! Don't bark at me.”

“I don't know anyone here,” Dean whines.

“I requested a two-bed cabin,” a voice pipes up behind them and Dean recognizes it as Cas' right away. His stomach turns a somersault. “I was supposed to be rooming with Aaron but they wanted their own space, so you're invited to stay, Dean. If you want to.”

“That's awesome,” Charlie chirps without waiting for Dean's response. “Jesus, Cas, this is why I keep you around. You're too good for your own good.”

“Hardly,” Castiel replies shyly, looking down before he looks right back up and into Dean's eyes.

Dean is dumbstruck. In that he literally stares at Cas dumbly for a few seconds, into his stupidly blue eyes, before he manages to make himself speak. “Thanks,” he manages to squeeze out. “That'd be great, I mean, better than sleeping in my car for sure.”

“Don't listen to Dean,” Charlie says jokingly, “He doesn't know how to use words.”

Castiel laughs and he looks up at Dean from behind his lashes against in a manner Dean would consider flirty in any other environment.

Besides, he surely wouldn't look that way at _Dean_ , now would he?

 

 

///

 

 

Even after getting their things to the cabins, they don't spend much time there. For Dean, it's a little awkward – he's used to sharing space with someone, but he can't help watching Cas as he unpacks the mere necessities. They talk a little about their drive here, skating on the thin ice between strangers engaging in small talk and future friends that are getting to know each other.

Eventually, they all gather in the cafeteria – partly because of dinner, and partly to spend more time together.

Pushing two bigger tables together and leaving the others in a messy pile, they sit around. No one takes the head of the table place, perhaps to make everyone feel more equal. Dean finds himself in the middle of it, with Victor on his right side, Cas to his left (because they walked here together from their brand-new cabin), and Charlie across from him.

At first, Dean feels a little jumpy and fidgety. He's not used to this big a group and once again, it’s holding him back a little.

His initial uneasiness disappears when they get into a heated argument about a pack of badges that Charlie fishes out of her pockets and lays on the table. This is before dinner, so maybe they're additionally grumpy with the no-food-in-their-bellies situation, but they all look at it skeptically.

“These are some badges that I made,” Charlie announces, clapping her hand on the table in front of her.

“You don't _say_ ,” Bela comments, reaching out and taking the pack in her hands, opening it and skimming what's written on them. She's sitting on the opposite side from Dean so he can't see, but Kevin, who's sitting next to Bela, is already looking over her shoulder.

“They're for the kids,” Charlie explains slowly. “They're just, you know, a trial. We don't have to actually use them, but. They have different sexualities and identities written on them and the kids will be able to take them, if they want to, obviously.”

Kevin takes one of the badges in his hand and examines it. “Yeah, I think that's kind of shady, actually.”

“It's not _mandatory_ ,” Charlie argues.

“But it feels like you're forcing the kids to label themselves right away,” Victor pipes up next to Dean, and Dean finds himself nodding along. Charlie glares at him, but the fact is that he agrees with Kevin and Victor – it doesn't seem right.

“The badges are cute,” Cas says when they get to him, since they're now scattered across the table and everyone's looking through them. Funnily enough, Dean catches the one with the bisexual flag colors in pastel. “But I agree with Kevin and Vic, honestly.”

“It's easy for us to say what we are, you know,” Victor continues, pointing his long finger at himself. “I'm gay, but it took me years to get here.”

“Same here,” Dorothy says, looking at Charlie apologetically.

Charlie throws her arms up. “Fine. You're probably right. I didn't think it through. It's different for us. Just let me try it with one of them?”

Kevin still doesn't look impressed, but most of them mumble and shrug and say that there's no harm in trying with one, but please lord let her pick someone who doesn't look uncomfortable with such an idea.

“Anyway,” Bela says with a smirk on her face, the badges still scattered around the table. “I dare you all to pick your badge and share your life story. Group therapy before the madness begins.”

Aaron snorts and Castiel seems to shrink next to Dean, but most of them look eager. Well, most of them _are_ comfortable with who they are, and some of them know each other, so it actually starts up a conversation.

Victor is the first one to find the rainbow flag and hold it proudly against his chest. “Gay and proud. My parents less so.” He's the first one to willingly share his story as well, and more follow. Dean once again holds back – their enthusiasm is a little smothering and he feels less comfortable in his skin than they seem to do, but he enjoys listening to them.

They all have a story, and Dean knows that that's an important part of this. They all have a voice and they've all decided to be heard and share it to help others find their voice as well, and he can see how that could be just about the most important thing for queer kids to hear.

Bela talks about being demi and pansexual and what it means, and Jo joins her (which makes Dean laugh because of the irony), telling them all she's bisexual and pretty happy about it. Aaron talks for a long time about being genderfluid and aro-ace at the same time and they all listen to them – they seem genuinely happy to be able to share without the fear of being judged. Dorothy is a lesbian, just like Charlie, and Kevin surprises them all when he says that he's been identifying as gay for as long as he can remember, but he thinks he might be either pansexual or bisexual, he's not sure.

“I guess it's all part of a process,” he wraps up, “and also, saying 'I'm gay' instead of 'I'm bisexual' felt kind of safer. I don't know.”

“I didn't have the guts to accept myself as bi for years,” Dean speaks up suddenly, and he's surprised to hear himself speak so openly about it. “Though I identified as straight for a long time.”

“Proud of you, friend,” Charlie smiles at him across the table. Since she's sitting right across from him, she jokingly kicks his shin under the table, which makes Dean throw the pastel-bi badge at her, all in good fun.

They laugh (sometimes bitterly, because not all of them have a funny story, some of them have a sad one) and joke and the only person who stays silent except for saying, “I'm gay,” is Castiel. No one forces him to share, of course, but it intrigues Dean – as much as he hates that. He is well aware that someone's sexuality is not the most important thing about them, but in this strangely cheery mood, it's somewhat odd to have someone sitting quietly. That's also a part of Cas' process, though.

Behind all that, Dean is also painfully aware that they're all very lucky to have found themselves in a group like this – not a single one of them is judgy towards the others, but that's not often true, especially in this community. They are, indeed, very lucky. At least in this respect.

The evening grows darker and a little bit colder around them. They munch on their dinner and keep on laughing, and it's almost midnight by the time their chairs finally screech against the cafeteria's linoleum and they get going to the cabins.

“Madness begins in two days,” Charlie tells them all, adapting the word from Bela. “So tomorrow's a busy day, guys. We've a lot to tackle.”

“Sure thing, captain,” Victor laughs. “Night, y'all.”

Most of them leave the cafeteria as a group, now quiet, and one by one they depart. Dean would have hated this as a teenager or even a young adult – to move somewhere with a larger group as if he weren't capable of getting place by himself. Not now, though; it makes him feel a part of something (that he likes).

Cas and Dean are the second to last to part from it and walk up to their cabin. Turns out they're also the only ones sharing one, but Dean doesn't really mind.

“I'm glad you joined us, Dean,” Cas tells him as they turn on the light in the cabin. It's mild and the lamp casts long shadows on one of the walls. The wallpaper is a purple flower pattern and the room itself looks a lot like a motel room – two beds with sheets on opposite sides.

Dean flops down on his bed, the one near the door as opposed to Cas' near the window, and scratches his head. “I'm just helping out.”

“Yeah, but that's good,” Cas argues and he sits down as well. “I'm sorry I was so quiet this evening. I feel like I missed out on a lot.”

“Nah,” Dean smiles, “You were there, it counts. I wasn't at my most talkative, either.”

They look at each other with a sort of understanding, and Dean wonders whether Cas was expecting him to ask, whether he wanted him to ask. It's not that Dean doesn't want to know, but he doesn't want to push. But Cas keeps looking at him, and his eyes look almost dark blue in this lighting, and Dean feels like maybe he should. Like maybe Cas wants to talk, just doesn't know how to. Like maybe he can joke and hug and all that, but it's difficult for him to be serious.

Dean's just opening his mouth to go for it, when Cas sighs and gets up. “I'm going to take a quick shower, if you don't mind,” he says in a rush and bends over his bag to get his pajamas.

“Sure, go for it,” Dean breathes out. They're practically strangers, but he can't help feeling like he just missed out on a lot as well.

 

 

///

 

 

The strangest part of the dream is that Dean _knows_ it's a dream right away.

He's just not exactly sure what gives it away.

Dean is pretty damn used to dreaming up a life he doesn't think he'll ever get to have. He gets out of his Impala – polished and shiny – and he's wearing clothes that could be considered semi-expensive. He lives in the suburbs with someone he loves, he knows this, and he walks up a driveway that sits by a well-kept front yard. Their house is small but beautiful – windows with wooden frames, a facade that looks brand new. It's two-storey, and comfortable. He unlocks the door with his own key on a keychain he never pays any attention to, and he actually kicks off his shoes so as not to stain the carpets. He walks through the house and he admires the artwork hanging on the walls – paintings, but also the photographs. Strangely enough, Dean is alone in most of them, but he's _happy_ in them. Sam is in some. He knows that his partner took all of these and that's why Dean is so happy in them.

Down the hallway, he gets to the kitchen door. The air smells of food – maybe burgers, or maybe something fancier, but still homemade.

This is where he sees his partner. It's a he, which is okay with Dean, he's happy about it. The man is wearing a yellow apron, tied carefully behind his back and around his neck, and Dean approaches him. Easily and lovingly, he whispers a _hi_ into the warm skin and kisses it afterwards. Then drapes his hands over the man's waist and pulls close, really just trying to feel close himself.

He pulls away after a second, asks _what's cookin', cookie_ , and perhaps this is where he figures out that it's a dream, because his voice sounds like an echo of something far, far away, or like something played back from an old cassette tape.

The man, Dean's partner, turns around.

He doesn't have a face. Instead of a mouth, or eyes, or a nose to kiss gently, there's just skin stretched from the man's chin up to the line of his hair. There is no face. There is no face. There is no face.

Dean screams.

He wakes up to two strong hands shaking him violently, and he tries to escape them, scurrying up on the bed and sitting up, hitting his back against the wall of the cabin harshly. His sheets are on the ground and he's panting, and the light has been turned on.

“Easy, easy,” Cas says, holding his hands up. “Just me.”

Dean knows how he must look, because he feels that way – like a scared little kid with a face scrunched up in pure horror. As hard as he tries to wipe it off with his hands as he rubs at it, it takes a second or two to get his balance back, and he's still breathing heavily by then.

“That must have been one hell of a nightmare,” Cas comments, still standing by Dean's bed, a little bit bent from where he was rousing him from sleep.

 _There is no face_ , Dean thinks and he shudders, trying and failing to get that image out of his head.

Wordlessly, he nods. He doesn't think he can actually speak – he's scared it will still sound like a faraway echo.

“Do you get them often?” Cas asks gently, finally retreating to his bed, and Dean manages to somewhat relax, slouching a little on the mattress. He feels sweaty and gross all over even though he took a shower just before bed.

He shakes his head. “Sometimes. Usually not like this.”

Not that he knows about it. He hasn't spent the night with anyone in quite some time, and he doesn't think that one night stands are ones to complain about their temporary lover screaming in their sleep. Dean _thinks_ he must have screamed out loud.

“You were thrashing in your bed and, well, screaming. I didn't know what to do...” Cas trails off and he lies down, pulling the sheets over his shoulders even though it's still summer-hot around them. Their beds are perfectly opposite each other, and when Cas lies on his side, Dean can see his face just fine. He looks concerned and worried, but a little bit sleepy as well.

“Thanks,” Dean says, and then he remembers how Charlie said he didn't know how to use words. “Seriously, thank you. And sorry for waking you up.”

“It's alright,” Cas smiles. “I can stay up if you want to talk.”

There is that invitation again, but Dean can't accept it, not right now. (There was no face.) He shakes his head. “Thanks, I'm good. Night, Cas.”

Castiel looks away. “Good night, Dean,” he says quietly and turns around to his other side. They leave the lights on.


	3. iii.

Dean pretty much disappears from their cabin in the morning and eats his breakfast mostly in solitude, sitting with the rest of the people there but not really being a part of the conversation.

The cafeteria doesn't really work like a cafeteria yet, so they all just grab a slice of toast or whatever else they like and sit around the disorganized tables, all together.

Dean squeezes himself between Charlie and Dorothy, which earns him a look that could easily kill a dude, but he's not risking it: he doesn't want Cas to sit next to him. Though, to be honest, it feels self-entitled to be so sure that Cas would even want to.

Cas does smile at him, though, when he gets to the cafeteria a few minutes after him, and wishes him good morning across the table.

(Okay, so maybe Dean really _did_ disappear the second Cas' alarm rang. He feels guilty about it, so.)

Dean watches him sit next to Aaron, a few chairs to the right and across the table from Dean, and focus on his oatmeal. Cas doesn't even look at him weird, or twice, or questioningly.

It's difficult to overcome this kind of embarrassment; God, not even Sam was ever witness to Dean's weird dreams, which he sometimes does have. They first started occurring after their parents passed – maybe a week later. Those dreams were often violent and shook Dean awake even more often, but he never knew he would scream in his sleep, or thrash in his bed.

That being said, Dean can't say he's ever had a dream like _this_ before, not quite. When he closes his eyes, even now, he still sees that faceless figure, the smooth, smooth skin stretched over where a mouth, nose and eyes should have been. It's an image that wouldn't freak him out in a horror movie, but to have that play out in your dreams was absolutely terrifying. He shivers.

Zoning out on the conversation completely, he, just like Cas with his oatmeal, focuses on his ham and cheese toast, which, okay, a toaster might be mostly responsible for it but it's so damn delicious Dean wants to thank Ellen, profusely.

Biting into it almost makes him forget and calms the anxiety in his belly, which he feels every time he thinks about Cas having to shake him awake and _see_ him like that, _God_.

He registers about every other word, really.

It is strange, and perhaps a little bit exhausting, to be surrounded by such a cheerful group of people. Dean still doesn't have all their names down – or, well, it takes him a second or two to pin the correct name to the correct face. Either way, they are chatting constantly, one voice layering over another, laughing occasionally even though it's still early in the morning.

Dean perks up, though, when Bela, straight across the table from him, places her jam knife on her plate and says, “I had the _strangest_ dreams last night.”

Dean doesn't have to react – Kevin does it for him. “Like what?”

“I'm not quite sure,” Bela shrugs, biting into her butter and jelly sandwich delicately so as not to get the jelly on her face. “Lots of them mashed together, weird stuff about my parents, that kind of thing. I guess it's jet lag.”

“Nah, I had weird dreams, too,” Jo says.

Dean leans closer over the table (partly because Charlie and Dorothy are discussing some LARP stuff - which he frankly doesn't understand a word of - behind his back, as if that couldn't wait). Still, he doesn't want to speak up.

“That's weird,” Kevin comments. “I don't usually remember my dreams but I had a freaky one tonight, too. I'm pretty sure Bruce Lee was trying to kill me and I lost my nunchucks, so – well, anyway. That was weird. Usually, Bruce Lee wants to be best friends and stuff.”

“Cute,” Bela muses, only half-mockingly. “Mine made me feel extremely uncomfortable, though. What about you, Jo?”

“Yeah,” Jo agrees, abandoning her breakfast and resting her arms on the table, also leaning into the conversation. Dean is really the only one obviously listening in but not taking part. “I was running through some woods but I didn't know where I was going. I think it actually woke me up, I dunno, the woods were stretching on forever but it gave me this strange feeling of claustrophobia, you know. I actually had to go for a walk afterwards.”

“Jesus, that was you creeping around at, like, four am?” Victor asks from behind his giant mug of coffee, which seems to be his only breakfast.

“Why the fuck were you up at four in the morning, dude?” Jo asks him with a raised eyebrow.

“I have insomnia,” Victor says at the same second Ellen says, “Language, Joanna.”

Jo gives her mom a nasty look but doesn't say anything – she _should_ be more careful, the kids will start getting here in only a couple of days and she probably shouldn't go about throwing fucks and shits around.

“Well, like I said, that's super freaky,” Kevin sums up, and lays the unfinished slice of bread on his plate. “And with that, I am done. Let me know when you need help getting these together,” he says as he gets up, motioning at the tables that still need to be placed in order and some turned over, since they're legs-up.

The table quiets down for a minute and Dean makes the mistake of looking up and finding Cas' eyes.

Yup, Cas is looking at him. Their eyes lock for a brief moment, and now Cas' eyes _are_ questioning, as if he was wondering not what kind of dream Dean had, but why he didn't want to bring it up. Dean, on the other hand, kind of wants to thank him for not doing that in his stead.

“I better get going, too,” Cas says quietly when he finishes his oatmeal. “I'm gonna be in the kitchen, Ellen, helping out and stuff.” He gathers up the now-empty plates from those who have finished their breakfast and Dean finally watches his back freely as he retreats towards the behind-the-scenes part of this camp.

“Guys, this is it,” Charlie says as they slowly but surely start to scatter to go take care of different stuff. “It's really happening.”

“I knew you'd pull it off,” Dorothy says with a knowing smirk. What the _hell_ , Dean thinks to himself. There is definitely something going on.

“Haven't yet, but it's _happening_ ,” Charlie argues, a strange expression on his face. “You guys.”

Ellen smiles at her and, since she's sitting next to Charlie from the other side, lovingly pats her hand. “I'm sure your mom would have been proud of you, honey.”

“Thanks, Ellen,” Charlie says quietly. They all know Charlie's mom, though most of them only through late night internet chats – or via someone else like Ellen, who must have heard about her from Jo. Dean knew her personally.

This is part of what connects him to Charlie – a parent that died in a horrible car accident. Except Charlie's was stuck in a coma for a long, long time, and Charlie had a hard, hard time letting go. What Ellen is saying is sentimental, but it is also very true. Dean knows it to be true. Charlie's mom _loved_ her kid, and she always saw the potential in her: she _would_ have been proud.

Perhaps Dean's parents, too, if they ever knew. But Dean can only take a wild guess there.

“What do you need me to do today?” Dean asks abruptly, because he knows mom-talk always gets to Charlie, and he doesn't want her to be sad.

She looks to him, smiling slightly. There are the beginnings of tears in her eyes and she looks at him with gratitude, a silent _thank you_ for changing the subject.

“There are supposed to be boats at the lake,” she says, squeezes out, really, “but I don't know what condition they're in. Would you mind checking it out?”

“Not at all,” Dean says, perking up. He's been wanting to check out the lake and this is the perfect opportunity. “I can take my car -”

“Oh, well, um,” Charlie says, her mouth scrunching up in an apologetic grimace, “There's no road, it's through the woods. You're gonna have to walk and it's a couple of miles.”

That grounds Dean for sure, but hey, it's not like he hates walking – though he's been partial to too much nature all his life. This seems to be the summer of changes, though, so he takes care to smile instead of looking like it really, really pains him. (It does, a little.)

“That's fine,” he says, and it's only a half-lie, so it doesn't really count as a lie, does it? “'S long as I have a map or something, I'll live.”

“Sure hope so, buddy,” Charlie pats his forearm lovingly, and that's his cue to get up and get going.

This fits him right now, anyway. He didn't want to spend the day in the camp, not really: he’s worried he would keep running into Cas all the damn time and having to face him, especially after that last look they exchanged.

Despite having a map, he does get a bit lost on his way there – the woods seem almost witchy and there isn't indeed any sort of road that could lead him to the lake. There's a path, overgrown with grass and flowers and rotting leaves that probably led there at some point, but it's difficult to follow. Dean even has a _compass_ with him, thank you very much, but as has been said, he's not that keen on nature – it takes him a while to properly navigate his way there.

He's too focused on that to really think about anything else, be it Cas or the strange faceless figure in his dream, and that relaxes him. There might be some obstacles in getting to the lake, but they keep him preoccupied, so he's thankful for them. Though he doesn't admit it to himself, at one point he catches himself admiring his surroundings – he's never seen this much _green_ in his life, probably, and it's mesmerizing. Plants and flowers that are blooming in red and purple and yellow, and the creaking of old fallen branches beneath his feet soothes and captures him.

And then, God, then he actually does get to the lake.

There's not a single warning sign. There are just rows of trees, some tall and small short, some blooming and some shedding petals and leaves on top of Dean's hand. They keep him in shade, protecting him from the sun, and it's noticeably darker here than back at the camp.

And then, suddenly, as he walks past another row of trees, they seem to open up and he walks right out of the forest, unexpectedly, rays of sunshine leaning against him and showering him in warmth.

It's impossibly beautiful.

The lake is not too large – Dean can clearly see the shore on the other side, as well as almost-seeing it all around. It's so, so untouched by humans, though, that it seems remarkable and _giant_.

There are no cabins tainting the other side, or anywhere that he can see. Just trees upon trees, green and vibrant, and the blue cloudless sky stretching on and on above them. They reflect on the lake's surface, which is the clearest Dean has ever seen, and create a palette so beautiful Dean is frozen in his spot, staring.

He might just be super keen on nature.

Not knowing where to look first, his eyes jump from spot to spot, admiring the woods that surround the whole area, the lake itself, the birds chirping in the sky, the other sounds the woods make. Oh, and the sunlight. Dean's getting hotter in his two shirts and jeans, but for a second, he can't will his legs to move. The sunlight makes it all so much more beautiful.

Existing in this spot, a few feet away from such a big body of water, feels peaceful. He breathes in and out and smells nothing but pure nature. It's completely silent except for the animals that scatter across the ground and behind him in the woods, and it's the first time Dean doesn't mind such silence.

“Holy shit,” he whispers to himself, hoping that it won't stain the atmosphere, and it doesn't.

It genuinely takes him another minute or two before he realizes that there are, in fact, zero boats. Which is obviously a problem.

Honestly, he was expecting that there would be _some_ but that they would all be in need of repairing. His eyesight is pretty good, but when he tries to squint at the other side of the lake, it seems just as untouched and boat-less as this side. Dean has no clue who promised Charlie boats, of all things – it feels like they would look inappropriate in this little secluded spot – but they were wrong, or they lied.

He doesn't want to go back with bad news, not yet, anyway.

He genuinely considers sitting down and getting sand and rocks all over his clothes, but then he gets a better idea.

Looking back, he considers the distance between the camp and himself. It's a good twenty minute walk and he doesn't think that anyone followed him. His idea is definitely a go.

Insecure at first, then excited, Dean strips. He keeps his boxers on, just in case, but he leaves everything else in a neat pile near the shoreline. Once again, he considers the body of water in front of him, but it's so – so beautiful. Clear and blue, and the sun is starting to feel hot on Dean's skin, and so he goes for it.

He approaches the water until it starts to lap at his toes, and he exhales. The water feels like a good mix of cold and warm, and he doesn't even hold back. Within seconds, he is in up to his neck and diving, wetting his head and hair, then swimming further in until he can't reach the muddy bottom with his feet anymore.

He feels _free_.

Dean has never known any form of prison, real or metaphorical, but this makes him realize that up until now, he hasn't tasted real freedom either. This is it. This feeling; the water embracing him like a child, as if his mother was lulling him to sleep in her arms, and him moving through it.

He forgets the dream. He doesn't forget Cas. That face resurfaces in front of his eyes with every movement of his arms, but it's a good image.

Cas is something else. Cas is associated with this kind of freedom, somehow, and Dean can't help but imagine Cas' body being so lovingly embraced by this body of water as well. It is an innocent fantasy, however dirty it may sound. He wants this freedom for Cas.

Soon enough, his brain turns off, though. The water and his arms and legs are the only things he can think about.

It feels like the first time that he truly gets to exist.

 

 

///

 

 

Dean lets his body dry a little in the sun before he puts his shirt and pants back on. His skin is still a little wet, just not enough to stain the clothes. He walks back at a leisurely pace, the sun starting to properly rise behind him, leaning against his back gently.

His limbs are a little tired from his swim, but the walk back is still pleasant and somehow seems shorter than the walk there, probably because he doesn't get lost this time around. The sun is fully risen when he finally arrives back at the camp, and nobody notices him.

It's not that he expected anyone to rush to him and welcome him back – it's just that literally no one notices, because they're otherwise preoccupied.

Everyone, from Charlie to Kevin, is gathered near the front entrance.

Dean expects a pipe leak at best and the end of the world at worst. What he finds there, though, is somewhere in the middle.

When he first approaches the group, he can't quite make out what the problem seems to be, because there's just so many people. _Too_ many people, actually, Dean realizes when he spots an extra blonde head right in the middle of it all, sitting by the door. Whoever the extra head belongs to, they're bowing it as if to shield themselves from the small crowd.

“Who's that?” Dean asks no one in particular, eyes still glued to the figure.

“We don't know,” Victor replies, his tone conversational. He's standing with his arms crossed across his chest, like a cop ready to take action, should it be necessary. “She just showed up a couple of minutes ago.”

Ah, so it's a she. He could have guessed by the long hair, but didn't want to assume.

“Where did she come from?” he asks. He's trying to get on his tiptoes to get a better look at the stranger, however childish that may be. (Which it is, a lot.)

“Also no clue.”

The others don't pay much attention to him, except for Cas who quickly glances his way when he finally registers that Dean is back. Perhaps that's what grants Dean the confidence he needs to get into the middle, through the mass of bodies, and stand in front of the girl. He remembers what Charlie told him (and what a part of him secretly believes to be true). _You like kids and you're really good with them_. More or less.

Up close, the girl really does look like a kid – sixteen, maybe, definitely not older, possibly younger. She intimidates Dean, and he can't pinpoint why, but he makes his way towards her anyway.

The others have influenced this too: their presence makes him feel braver than he really is, even if it's just talking to a girl he's never seen before.

So he reaches out, trying not to scare her, and says, “Hey,” as gently as he can before placing his hand on the girl's shoulder, also as gently as he can.

The girl's head shoots up as if he bit or stabbed her. Her eyes are a piercing blue, just like Cas', but where Cas' are warm, this girl's are as cold as the harshest place in the ocean. She looks surprised – or pained, which makes Dean retreat immediately. She keeps staring at him, though, wide-eyed, as if assessing him. It feels almost uncomfortable.

This seems to be the most they've gotten out of her so far, though, because Charlie basically jumps forward and pushes Dean out of the frame.

“Hey there,” Charlie says cheerfully. She sits down next to the girl. The stairs don't offer much space and their shoulders touch, but no one seems to care – not even the strange girl, whose wild eyes will haunt Dean for a while. “Is it okay if we talk a little?”

The girl seems to consider this. It might be Dean's imagination, but it looks like she's leaning into Charlie, perhaps subconsciously, as she looks up at her. “Okay,” she says quietly.

Everyone seems to let out a relieved breath, as if they have been handling a dangerous threat, a bomb maybe, and now they’ve all remembered that she's just a scared little girl after all. Harmless.

“Okay! Cool. My name is Charlie. I kinda run this place. I'd introduce you to all these weirdos but there's too many of them,” Charlie says and waves her hand in Dean's direction. The girl doesn't smile.

“I'm Claire.”

Dean sighs in a weird, almost nostalgic way. They're all standing there, their eyes steady on this tiny-looking blonde girl, and Dean _sighs_. He's pretty sure he's not the only one. Just looking at her is mesmerizing in a strange way, especially now that he's standing so close to her – as if the world grew more saturated in color. It's a little bit like looking at that lake earlier – an image so new and fresh he doesn't know how to file it away. That's what made him stand on his tiptoes.

“That's a lovely name,” Charlie tells her and Dean cringes. She's treating her like she's a tiny kid. She's just a tiny girl.

Claire smiles, though, as if that made her happy. “It means 'clear' in French,” she says. The smile, Dean realizes, is sad more than anything. She brushes a few stray locks of her blonde hair out of her face casually.

Charlie exchanges a look with someone – they're all so pressed together, surrounding the girl, that Dean can't tell who. Dorothy, maybe, or Cas, who's moved and is now standing right next to Dean. Dean is pretty sure that at least _Claire_ is looking at Cas, and then briefly at Dean again. Her eyes, once on him, still seem so large and all-seeing. Teenagers are _scary_. Especially in the middle of the Montana wilderness, apparently.

“So,” Charlie starts, careful now. “Could you tell us – me how you got here?”

“Hitchhiked, mostly,” Claire says quickly, still leaning heavily against Charlie's shoulder. “Then walked some of it. It wasn't a problem, I've been to Montana before and I had a map.”

“Wait,” Charlie says, retreating a little, “So you actually… wanted to end up here?”

Claire nods. “Yeah. I...” Suddenly, her eyes well up, sparkling with tears. At least, that's what it looks like.

Apparently acting on instinct, Charlie grabs her hand. This is the best thing about Charlie. She is a nerd and a tough girl (and a queen on LARP days, of course), but there are moments like this one, when she is so compassionate and with her stick shift set on empathy it is astounding. This is why she is a good leader. She is the one to give out orders and hold your hand at the same time, telling you that you'll do a good job for sure.

She squeezes Claire's hand and from what Dean can see, Claire squeezes back. They look into each other's eyes, a troubled woman and a troubled girl, and the moment seems almost intimate. Dean wants to look away, grows uneasy – and it looks like he's not the only one. Castiel next to him shuffles.

“It's my parents,” Claire says finally after a minute of consideration and intense eye contact, as if she was looking for the answer in Charlie's eyes. “They don't. Ugh. I don't know how to explain this.”

Up until now, Claire looked like an almost ethereal being, wrapped in her own strange aura. That bubble pops now and she looks like a normal teenager, frustrated and sad and angry at someone who's done her wrong. Dean relaxes again and finally sees her for what she is – really just a kid who's been through some shit.

“What about them?” Charlie asks quietly.

Claire pulls away and pulls her knees to herself, hugging them with her thin arms. “It's complicated. I did something bad.”

“I'm sure it wasn't that bad,” Kevin pipes up, the self-proclaimed good kid who's done a bag of bad things in his life and moved on from them successfully. Or so he says.

Claire shakes her head. “I lied to them and told them that this was Bible camp. My parents are _super_ religious and, well, homophobic, I guess. They found out that I lied. They – well.” She shrugs.

“They didn't throw you out, right?” Dorothy asks. Now that Claire's behaving in a more or less normal way, they all feel better interacting with her. Dorothy is concerned – she battled her own parents, especially her father, for so long that it’s understandable.

(Dean is a little shocked, to be honest, to find himself understanding the others after one brief, however intense, amateur group therapy session last night, but, well. Such are men.)

“No!” Claire exclaims, as if shocked. “Nothing like that. I ran away. They just – well, they got very, very mad. Suggested conversion therapy. Said they loved me and that they would support me getting right with God again.”

Castiel next to Dean stiffens – he _freezes_. Dean doesn't know much about Cas; unlike the others, he hasn't shared his history with the rest of the group. His reaction alone, though, tells a story. _As if that isn't bad enough_ , he must be thinking, and Dean can feel the chant of _this is wrong wrong wrong_ echoing through the air. He almost wants to put his arms around Cas, just because. Cas has been nothing but smiley and relaxed and seemingly carefree, but now he's turned into stone right next to him. It is terrifying.

“They should not have done that,” Castiel says quietly, his face that of a skilled poker player because he seems to be so used to hiding behind it, and his posture so, so still. “I'm sorry.”

Claire's eyes grow teary again. She doesn't look at Cas, as if he knew too much. Charlie doesn't interrupt, and there's no need to. They do remain silent for a second or two, but then Claire buries her face in her hands and there's a barely audible sob muffled behind them.

“I didn't have anywhere else to go,” she says into them. “I don't have any friends, not really, no one I could trust with _this_ ,” she says, “and this is the only place I could think of. Maybe they canceled their payment. I don't know. Please don't make me leave.”

“We wouldn't do that,” Charlie says quickly, hurrying to the rescue.

Of course, she’s worried about money. It would be difficult to feed and house an extra mouth if Claire's parents did decide to request their payment back because they're all awful sinners here. But of course, Charlie would never turn away a kid who doesn't have anywhere to go.

“I don't know what to do,” Claire says, a little high-pitched.

Dean knows this feeling. A part of it, anyway. He never got to come out to his parents and everyone else always accepted him, but the feeling of being left alone, unfairly and horribly, is all too familiar. He and Sam were teenagers when their parents passed. The feeling of loss _and_ being lost was immediate and it lasted for so, so long. So long, in fact, that it's engraved its presence in Dean's bones forever, most likely.

So he understands. They all understand. They’ve all felt lost in one way or another, some of them in exactly the same way. Victor, whose parents never could find the strength to be happy for him – they saw him as a black man who voluntarily chose to also be gay. Or Bela, whose parents never bothered to tell her that they disapproved of who she wanted to love or how, but they eventually stopped communicating and cut her out of their lives, stopping her from cutting _them_ out of _her_ life, which would have been a choice she deserved to make.

“You don't have to do anything right now, Claire,” Dorothy speaks up again.

“Yes,” Charlie nods and takes Claire's wrist; not making her face them, just touching her to show her she's not alone. “Like I said, I kinda run this madhouse. You're welcome here and we love you, okay. We can contact your parents later, and we _shouldme_.”

What Charlie's saying is this: you're safe here. You don't have to worry. We will never kick you out of here and we'll try our best to not make you feel like you need to run away again. She's saying: this could be your home for as long as you want, for as long as we're here. She's saying: we are friends. Be our friend?

“Thank you,” Claire says, and finally takes her hands away from her face, which is now reddened and a little bit puffy. Despite the sob they all heard, her cheeks are dry and the tears have disappeared. Not all of them know relief like this.

“Of course,” Charlie says, and she stands up. She pulls Claire up to her feet. Hugs her across her shoulders, just like Cas did when Dean first got here.

“Welcome to the camp, kiddo,” Victor says and he looks like he's tempted to walk up to her and ruffle her hair. Who knows what stops him, but thank god something does.

“Yeah,” Bela chimes in. “Welcome to Forestress. You're officially our first camper. How cool, huh?” Her British accent is wonderful and makes it sound like this is the most underwhelming moment of her life, but Claire can read her – maybe she knows other British people – because she smiles.

“Oh, listen,” Charlie says as the group finally stands back and scatters a little. The way they were gathered around the poor kid was ridiculous anyway. “We have badges, if you want one. Gay, lesbian, bisexual, etc. We're just testing this out. What are you?”

Now Claire looks at her with those big, big eyes, once again searching for an answer. For a brief second, the strange aura wraps her up again but it dissolves way too quickly for it to even register.

Claire looks away. “I don't know,” she says sadly and quietly, almost in a whisper.

“That's okay!” Charlie chirps. “The badges aren’t a must. 'Questioning' is a perfectly valid answer. Let's show you around, okay? Do you have any clothes, anything?”

Claire shakes her head. They worry about that, but they'll figure it out.

They all scatter after this: Charlie and Dorothy take off to take Claire on grounds tour number two, and the others stand in pairs to discuss Claire, most likely. Cas smiles at Dean but doesn't talk to him, which is kind of disappointing but deserved, and leaves towards their cabin. Dean feels weird following him right away, even though he wanted to change his clothes, so he lingers.

“I knew the badges were a dumb idea,” Kevin says, scratching his head and stopping next to Dean.

“I guess,” Dean responds quietly, bouncing on his heels a little, still lingering. “Charlie won't be happy about it, though.”

“I mean, if _I_ spent who knows how long handcrafting stuff, I wouldn't be happy about it, either. You know?”

Dean snorts. “Yeah. And wait when she finds out they lied to her about the boats.”

“Aw, no way,” Kevin whines, “I was planning very cool on-boat wrestling matches.”

“Charlie would never allow that, dude,” Dean says, laughing. They've both started walking away from the main entrance.

“I wasn't planning on telling her,” Kevin tells him quite seriously. He bumps Dean's shoulder. “I'm off to eat my early lunch. See you around, friend.”

Dean nods, not really feeling the need to answer, and he sighs, feeling left alone between the reception and the parking lot.

This is strange. It _feels_ strange. But then he remembers the lake, the swim, the beautiful nature that surrounds them and that he never thought he could appreciate outside of his car, and he smiles. So they have Claire. Their first camper. She’s devastated and messed up, but this could be good. This could still be so good.

Dean's skin is growing too itchy, and so he follows Cas in the end. Time to take a shower, to change his clothes, to have lunch with his growing surrogate family, which just grew in numbers.

How could that be bad?


	4. iv.

The night that follows Claire's abrupt arrival is in a sense exactly like the one before, but also different.

There are still nightmares, except it's not Dean this time who has them. Dean is the one who wakes up to a very loud, terrified scream coming from the bed across the room.

He feels like Cas must have felt the night before: terrified and chilled to the bone, roused from any kind of sleepiness immediately, and god, he is so, so worried. For a second, he genuinely thinks there's a Jason Vorhees in here and he's murdering Cas, because the second shriek that Cas lets out is deafening.

Dean finally jumps out of his bed and nearly stumbles over his feet, definitely hits his shin on _something_ that he can't see in the dark, and basically flops on top of Cas. Unlike Cas, he doesn't bother turning the lights on. Quite forcefully, he takes Cas' arms and shakes them. He can't make himself speak, never mind shout to wake Cas up more effectively, but the shaking seems to get the job done.

Cas doesn't scurry up the bed to get away from Dean – he just shrinks and lets his arm be held tightly, blue eyes wide open and terrified. Dean lets him go the second they open, but his ass is already half on Cas' bed, so he keeps sitting there. He pulls away, though, to show that he's no threat.

“You okay?” he asks and not even his voice is sleepy. Dean is alert and his heart beating fast in his chest, as if it was him waking up from a nightmare again. But it's Cas. That's enough.

Cas shakes his head. “I don't know,” he says, holding himself up on his arms. It's a few more seconds before the terrified expression on his face relaxes and melts into something more comparable to ease. “I don't know _what happened_ ,” he adds, though Dean's not buying it. “I don't – get nightmares at all.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Dean asks. He's not missing his chance tonight – he's wide awake anyway.

Castiel seems to consider him. He was more than willing to talk yesterday, but now he's still panting and regrouping himself after the nightmare – he's not as keen. He sighs in the end, though, and sits up on the bed. It helps, probably, that they're still sitting in the dark without the lights on.

“Would you mind if we went outside for a little bit? For a walk?” Cas asks quietly.

Dean can't help but imagine them as teenagers on a sleepover who decide to sneak out when it's past their bedtime. It makes him smile. “Sure. It's too stuffy in here, anyway.”

Before they leave their cabin, Cas opens the window to air out the cabin a little so they come back to a space where you can actually breathe without choking. They put on pants but leave their sleeping shirts on, and they close the door behind them.

For a minute or so, they walk in silence. Dean isn't sure how to start the conversation and Cas seems to be at a loss too. This place looks a little creepy in the night, with the cabins mostly in darkness with only one or two exceptions. That's not something Dean wants to point out, though, especially after Cas' nightmare.

“What did you think of Claire?” Dean asks, as they pass one of the camper cabins where she's probably sound asleep, hopefully not wide awake and freaking out about being surrounded by strangers in the middle of nowhere.

Castiel shrugs. They round the counselor cabins and start back, the woods to their side. “That she deserves better.”

“Cas...” Dean trails off because he's not sure how to continue.

They really _are_ strangers, when you think about it. Dean shouldn't be asking personal questions, but god, he wants to. And if Cas didn't want to be asked, he wouldn't be out here with him at all, would he? No, he probably wouldn't. They both want to talk. They may be strangers but there's still something pulling Dean closer. If you don't ever let these things happen, _everyone_ would always be a stranger, not a friend.

“That opinion come from personal experience?” he dares to ask in the end, but his question is followed by sharp silence. “I'm sorry if I shouldn't have asked -”

“It's okay,” Cas cuts him off and he sighs deeply. “I guess so. It's more complicated than that. My parents _are_ very religious, but I was, too. I think that was the worst part.”

“Your folks were okay with you being gay?”

“No. They aren't. Like Claire's, they think it's a sin. But that's fine – I have a good support system and I'm okay. It was – you know, I'm not just gay. I'm panromantic and I adore people of all genders, but I say I'm gay because sexually, I can only ever see myself with a man, so...”

“Okay,” Dean says, fighting the blush that's trying to settle on his cheeks. “Did you have a hard time coming to terms with that?”

“Oh, I hated myself,” Cas laughs, the sound bitter. “I thought I was wired wrong, for a really, really long time. It took me years to find the balance between being religious and being not straight. Yeah, that was the worst part. Faith is not an easy thing and I don't think it's for the weak, you have to work hard for it. Are you religious, Dean?”

“'Fraid not,” Dean shakes his head. “You know you're _not_ wired wrong, right?”

“I do, now,” Cas says. There's empty space between them where there should be a hug or a hand brushing against the other's, but they don't go there. “Thank you for telling me, though.”

The blush has definitely taken over Dean's face.

“Can I ask what your nightmare was, last night?” Cas asks suddenly as they get to the end of the line of cabins and round it again, starting to walk back towards their own.

Dean actually considers lying, for just a brief second. It feels wrong, though, to keep it to himself – it's uncomfortable and scary, but these things get blurry in the dark, and it's the middle of the night, so it's easier to share than it would have been in daylight or by lamplight.

“It's kind of, I dunno, stupid,” he says, “I have this dream sometimes where I pretty much lead an apple pie life, y'know? Nice car, nice house, a partner waiting for me inside. So last night I had that dream, except when I got to my partner in the dream and he turned around, it was – he had no face. There was just – nothing. I've had scarier dreams but it was terrifying, for some reason.”

Cas stops mid-step even though they're a few cabins away from theirs. “That's impossible,” he whispers.

Dean laughs. “What?”

“I said, that's impossible,” Cas repeats again. Dean looks back at him, confused, having walked a step or two further than Cas before he noticed. He can only see Cas' features in the dark. “I had the same one tonight.”

 

 

///

 

 

So now they share a little secret that they can't explain and look at each other a little differently.

They talk a little more after they get back to their cabin, never bothering to turn the lights on. They sit on Cas' bed – a silent agreement, they simply flop down there by the open window. And they talk.

Cas talks about his family – it turns out that his siblings are a lot more supportive than his parents, albeit teasingly so sometimes. He mentions his sister, Anna, as well as two of his brothers – Gabriel and Balthazar, which is where the teasing came in. “Anna is far too serious for her own good,” he said, dismissing the subject.

This leads to Dean talking about Sam and he surprises himself by willingly opening up about the whole move to California.

“Do you have anything to remember him by? Like a picture in your wallet or something 90s like that?” Cas suggests. With the slight night breeze curling in through the window and cooling their necks, it feels light and harmless.

Dean brings up the amulet Sam gave him so many years ago from beneath his shirt. Cas reaches out, leans over and turns on the lamp on his nightstand. It makes the necklace glisten in the light just the tiniest bit. “Just this old thing. Little dude gave it to me when he was a kid, been wearing it since.”

Cas takes the amulet softly, their fingers brushing, and leans closer to inspect it. His face is mere inches from Dean's for a moment, and Dean can still smell shampoo and cleanness from his hair and clothes. He breathes in deeply.

“That's quite the original gift to give. Was it for…?”

“Christmas,” Dean says and smiles. When Cas lets go, Dean quickly hides it under his shirt again. It has grown a little cold in the night air, and it lays against his skin, cooling him. “First year we were without our parents.”

“I'm sorry,” Castiel said, but sitting beside him is comfort enough. It is these little things: sharing the amulet, sharing the little details. Dean wouldn't consider them strangers at this point, not anymore.

He inhales, blinks slowly. “It's okay,” he says. “They passed a long time ago. Car accident.”

“How old were you?” Cas asks quietly. Even though their fingers are no longer brushing, he still feels inches away, warm and _there_.

“About to turn eighteen,” Dean whispers, because this is not something he can talk about loudly; he never can. He never _does_ talk about it, at all. “Barely got Sam to stay with me, so I could take care of him. Almost lost him back then. But it's okay.”

“I don't think you can move on from something like that,” Castiel says slowly, and Dean nods. That's about all they say about it – there isn't even more to say. Dean kids himself that his parents' death is a long lost thing, buried in the past, but no – no, he can't move on from something like that. Cas' words feel like the squeeze of his hand, like a hug. They don't necessarily mean comfort, unless acknowledgment and empathy are the same thing. Maybe they are, sometimes.

Quietly, in hushed voices as if it was a secret, they also talk about distance, about Cas living somewhere in the middle between Kansas and California, about how it would take a day for Dean to get there or the other way around, though they don't know exactly why they end up talking about _that_.

Dean doesn't mention his job – losing it, that is – nor that the combination of losing both it and his brother (though only figuratively with that one, of course) has made him feel a scary kind of desperation and hopelessness. There's been enough depressing stuff, he decides, and he doesn't feel like talking about it.

No, they talk about the good stuff before they both doze off to enjoy a few more hours of sleep, thankfully dreamless this time, Dean retreating into his own bed even though there's an invisible pull that begs him to stay snuggled in Cas'.

And so they somehow wake up as friends. Dean can see the twinkle in Cas' eyes as they get up the next morning and get ready in silence. The fact that they both dreamed the same, faceless nightmare, and it made both of them scream in terror, is both creepy and… well, cute. (In a twisted way, Dean's aware, but that's his brain for you.)

The more time he spends with Cas, the more he feels like they've known each other for ages. They are different, of course, in how they treat people and many things more, but there's a certain kind of sameness that keeps Dean close to Cas.

They shuffle to breakfast together, joking, their arms brushing slightly. They sit next to each other and pass spoons and food in each other's way. They coexist as if they've worked themselves around the ropes a long, long time ago and are now following a familiar, well-loved pattern of mutual kindness and interest.

Boy, is Dean interested. It makes his ears go red whenever Cas smiles at him – and that's a lot.

The camp is set to open up its gates in a little over twenty-four hours and there's lots of places to be with lots of things to tackle, but Dean sticks with Cas. They work side by side getting the cafeteria together, and they actually volunteer to help set up the camper cabins – so much clean linen passes through Dean's hands he feels clean himself, even with sweat running down his back since it's another hot Montana day. Not that he was expecting otherwise.

Claire, meanwhile, doesn't stay in one place for too long. She seems to make it her job to chat up everyone, quite possibly out of gratitude.

She catches up with Dean and Cas as well, when they'd both just about rather _die_ than set up one more cabin. Once one of the two beds is made, Dean flops down on it and Claire flops down right next to him while Cas remains the last man standing, changing the sheets to clean ones on the other bed. The cabins all look the same and if it wasn't for the green wallpaper instead of purple, he'd easily mistake it for Cas' and his.

“Thanks for abandoning me, you guys,” Cas comments as he stretches and bends over to spread out the clean linen evenly. Claire starts bouncing on the bed a little, and if Dean had the energy to laugh, he would. And if he weren't stuck, you know, _staring_ at Cas.

“Hey, I'm just a little innocent camper,” Claire says, throwing her hands up in defense. She points at Dean. “Blame this guy.”

Dean fakes being hurt by this. “Wow, nice. Really nice.”

Claire rolls her eyes. “I was just kidding. I usually hate men but you're okay for an old guy.”

(Cas definitely has the energy to laugh, and he manifests it loudly.)

“I'm not _old_ ,” Dean argues, now kind of hurt for real, “You're just too young. And biased.”

“Yeah, right,” Claire snorts and nudges Dean playfully before falling silent again.

She's been like this all day – joking one second and falling quiet the next, as if her brain had to keep up with too much – and it probably does have to do that, let's be honest. It's good to see her laugh, though. They've known her for less than a day but it's personal for all of them – it's good to see her laugh because it means hope, and hope means the world. Hope could mean everything.

Claire is definitely one of those people that gets under your skin quickly – just like Cas. With the blue eyes and this, they could almost be related. They both have heaviness _and_ easiness pinned to their shoulders and they take advantage of both equally. Subconsciously, perhaps, but they do all the same.

Besides, there's something about being stranded – which they are, kind of, a little town of eleven. You kind of get used to each other and become friends quicker – at least in Dean's experience so far. Everything gets a little more personal.

As the day goes on, dinner, too, finds Cas and Dean side by side in the cafeteria. Their knees bump every now and then and Dean's doing his best to ignore it.

Chatting up Victor and then Kevin (okay, so maybe he wants to ask about those swordfighting lessons, so _sue him_ ), Dean spends a lovely evening that seems to pass quickly – before they realize it's way past ten pm and they all know that they should get going and getting ready for the big day. (In Charlie's case, the biggest day to ever day – her words – the day she met Scar Jo at ComicCon included.)

“You sure you don't want a lesson _now_?” Kevin asks as they all get up to go back to their respective cabins for the night.

“Dude, I'm beat,” Dean says, shaking his head. He sure likes the idea of a sword and a _swordfight_ , however lame that is, but he would drop the thing within seconds. “All I can do right now is lie down and freak out about tomorrow. Internally.”

“Truer words were never spoken,” Dorothy comments when she passes them. “Goodnight, kids.”

Charlie and Dorothy are leading Claire away to her cabin as well, but other than that, not everyone seems as eager to retreat to their beds and sleep. The night is young, all that. Even though they have responsibilities that will catch up with them first thing in the morning.

“You're gonna have to join the kids, then,” Kevin tells him with a shrug, which makes Dean's ears glow red.

“I mean, we can call it comedy and I can be a public spectacle for them or somethin'.”

“The true spirit of Camp Forestress,” Kevin muses, clutching his chest. “I'll catch you tomorrow, folks. Goodnight,” he says, saluting.

It takes a second or two, but then Dean bites down on his lip before he jogs up to Kevin, catching up with him. “I don't mind joining you when the kids get here, but, like. Okay, Jesus, let's do it.”

“Seriously?” Kevin asks, his face already lighting up in excitement.

“What's happening?” asks Aaron who was walking just a foot or so ahead of Kevin before the excitement brought them back. They're dressed in a semi-sheer shirt, laced at places. Even Bela was ogling like she wanted to steal it.

“Dean's agreed to a swordfighting lesson!” Kevin exclaims, and it looks like Dean won't just be a public spectacle when the kids get here but now as well, seeing as Victor turns towards them and it grabs Cas' attention too. The worst thing is that it's now too late to back out – that would be even worse.

Victor whistles. “He's done _what_ now? Let's see that!”

“You brave, brave soul,” Cas tells him quietly as they all exit the cafeteria and walk towards the space behind the cabins.

It's _especially_ dark in there, but when Victor, Aaron and Cas all turn the flashlight apps on their phones on, it brightens the place up. When Kevin disappears to get the swords, Victor tells them the riveting story that he heard from his boyfriend's sister's friend who was into swords and renaissance festival: cut off fingers were involved. Dean wanted to smack him.

Kevin comes back with two wooden… well, you could probably call them swords, and hands one to Dean.

“We're doing it with _this_?” Dean asks, a little disappointed even despite Victor's story. The sword weighs down in his hand as he tries it – but it's not as heavy as he'd expected it to be, and as far as he can see, there are no sharp edges.

“You didn't expect me to bring actual swords to a summer camp, man?” Kevin wonders with a raised eyebrow. He takes a few steps back and gets in his stance – something Dean's only ever seen in movies. “Now, listen to me.”

“Uh-huh,” Dean mumbles, trying to mirror Kevin's pose. (And failing miserably.) Everyone around them is quiet for the moment, as if they actually want to learn a thing or two as well.

“The rookie mistake is to go into defense mode, like this.” Kevin changes his stance, the sword now upright in front of his body. “Your hands are exposed. Not good. This is better.” Kevin moves the sword until it's upright next to his shoulder, a little like a ballplayer holding a bat.

Kevin looks so ridiculously strong and invincible in his stance and with his serious face that everyone just _looks_ at him for a second.

For good measure, Dean tries to mirror it one more time, but it's as much of a failure as it was before. Victor bursts out laughing. “Man, I'm not followin',” Dean complains, squeezing the sword a little tighter.

“We've noticed,” Aaron pipes up jokingly – someone probably nudges them in the side and a few words are exchanged because giggles ensue.

“Just wait till I'm good with this,” he tells them, though he can't even see them over the phone flashlights. “Ugh. Can't we just, like, pretend to fight? I told you I'm too tired for an actual lesson. You know, like we did with spatulas when we were kids. Fake sword fighting.”

“When you did _what_ with _what_?” Victor squeals and starts laughing again.

“Beware of my spatula!” Aaron jokes and they both go into another laughing fit.

Kevin opposite him rolls his eyes. “They're lame. I totally did that when I was a kid. Okay. But you have to promise me you'll join me for the real one with the kids.”

“Promise,” Dean says and smiles, now comfortable in a stance that would probably get him disqualified in an actual match.

Of course, Kevin beats his ass. Dean tries to dodge, but his only experience comes from watching the Lord of the Rings about seven hundred times and playing a few too many video games where swords were involved. Kevin isn't harsh but Dean will probably have a few bruises on his ass, as that's where Kevin aimed most of his strikes. It's a lot of friendly laughter but Dean is still out of breath when they call it quits about twenty minutes later.

Kevin even shakes his head, thought it may be a little mockingly. “Next time, we're doing it properly,” he tells Dean, and the dude is not out of breath _at all_. Not fair.

“Yeah, right,” Dean squeezes out, handing Kevin back the wooden sword. His palms are sweaty as all hell and his t-shirt sticks to his back. “I'm gonna go sleep for seven years now.”

“Please shower first,” Castiel pipes up, coming up to him from the side. He was the only one who didn't engage in all the mocking – which Dean appreciates, even though the teasing itself didn't hurt or offend him.

Dean laughs, rubbing his sweaty hands against his jeans. “Yeah, don't worry.” And for some reason, this ridiculous idea – this idea of him being too tired to do anything but take off his shirt and fall into his bed, and Cas seeing him like that and maybe liking it, worms its way into his head. And it thrills him, and he can't shake it off.

“Are you excited?” Castiel asks him suddenly as they slowly begin their retreat to their cabin now that all the fun is done, walking at a leisurely pace. Dean's got his hands in his pockets now, just for the sheer want to grab Cas' hand – what the fuck is up with that, by the way? Completely uncalled for. “For tomorrow?”

“You kidding me?” Dean answers with a question. His breath has finally returned to normal, though he can still hear Victor and Aaron laughing behind them. “I'm freaking terrified. Being a part of something like this was never part of _my_ plan.” Not that he ever had one.

“You'll do great,” Castiel nudges him in the shoulder. “Claire loves you. She definitely wouldn't have called you an old man if she didn't.”

“Oh, shut up,” Dean laughs, once again glad he decided to stick his hands in his pockets. He wants to grab and touch and hold.

It's not that easy to pinpoint _why_ this is happening – there's simply something about Cas and the way he moves. Not just his muscles and arms and nice hands, not his face and messy hair and those insanely blue eyes – it's not just that. He coexists in the world in a way Dean's never seen _or_ experienced before – the way he carries himself and lives, the very way he breathes. It's something extraordinary to so much as see Cas. Plus, he is insanely nice. Which is even worse than his gorgeous face – you can ignore a gorgeous face on an asshole, but on someone this sweet? Not a chance.

Dean is not one to fall for idealizations or false enchantments, but Castiel is one of a kind – even after only a couple of days of shared space and intense communication, Dean knows this.

“Seriously, though,” Castiel repeats, “The kids will love you.”

But what does that mean? Does that mean that Dean is lovable? Or does that mean that Cas likes him? Is it a generalization, a way to comfort him, or is it a sentiment that Dean would find easy to reciprocate?

 

 

///

 

 

When Cas goes to shower – before Dean after all, because he's proclaimed to need a break first – Dean grows fidgety.

As much as he dislikes the idea of showering alongside someone else, albeit in a separate stall, it takes a lot not follow suit and go take one as well. The idea of Cas under the stream of hot water from the showerhead only a few feet away from him makes Dean all tingly.

He grows restless within minutes and his skin itches as if begging to get access to water, and so he grabs his phone and walks outside, sits on the stairs leading up to their cabin. Dean is pretty sure it's at _least_ almost eleven and so it's dark around, even though the lights are on in most of the cabins, still: it grants him a false sense of it not being night.

The one thing he's sure will distract him is his brother – they haven't talked since Dean got here and he's excited to catch up on California, how Sammy has been settling into the new apartment, and everything else.

(It's not as exciting as the idea of Cas, naked in a shower, but it'll do.)

Unlocking his phone, he gets as far as trying to dial Sam's number before he gets an abrupt no-signal message. He squints at the screen, noticing the no reception sign, and he frowns. He tries dialing Sam's number again but to no avail – he can’t get through.

He's distracted when one of the cabin doors opens and voices echo through the dark – when he looks up, he sees that it's Charlie just leaving Dorothy's cabin.

“Hey, you!” Dean shouts to get her attention and Charlie startles as if she was caught _in flagrante_ , or doing something illegal or questionable at the least. When she sees it's just Dean, though, she waves in his direction and starts walking towards him. He gets up to greet her, pretty much shoving his phone her way. “You didn't mention anything about bad reception.”

She looks down at his phone. “What did you expect, genius? You're literally in the wilderness, don't let the cabins fool you.”

“It was fine before, though,” he argues, looking down at the device himself. Still no reception. “No one's mentioned it, either.”

Charlie rolls her eyes. “Maybe your phone's just being dumb,” she says, fishing out her own iPhone out of her pocket. She unlocks it with a few quick swipes of her fingers and the screen lights up. “Huh. Mine's gone too.”

“See,” he tells her, feeling important. “I wonder if everyone else’s is the same.”

“Ugh, whatever,” Charlie groans and sticks the phone, still unlocked, back into her pocket. “It's late, it'll probably be okay in the morning. Who were you gonna call?”

“Ghostbusters,” Dean replies automatically, sighing. “You're right, it's whatever. Night, _princessa_ , and don't do anything I wouldn't do,” he says and winks at her, nodding his head towards Dorothy's cabin. It's been clear that they have been joined at the hip ever since getting here, exchanging looks and smiles and whatnot. It's been kind of delightful to watch, but it's Dean's duty to be worried.

Charlie, however, isn't a fan – which is probably _her_ duty. She punches Dean hard in the arm and leaves him without saying goodnight, which makes Dean laugh.

It's not until he goes to check the time that he realizes the clock on his phone has stopped working as well. When he looks down at his heavy wristwatch, it gives him the same result: both have stopped around six in the evening and no matter what he does, they just won't start ticking the time away again.

 

 

///

 

 

To be frank, in the morning, Dean doesn't even remember what he was freaking out about. For a second, he doesn't even register that he's alone in the cabin, but once he does, it throws him off big time. They've been leaving for breakfast (and basically every other thing as well) together ever since they got here and to see Cas just _gone_ makes Dean feel uneasy. It makes him think of fires and natural disasters and other catastrophic scenarios.

He gets dressed as quickly as he can (and he definitely does put his shirt on inside out in his haste, just don't tell anyone), and he has to talk himself down to stop himself jogging to the cafeteria.

Everyone, including Claire, is already gathered there. It seems peculiar because unlike any other day, they are all quiet and most of them are staring at their phones. Some of them, though, are staring at their watches, Dean notices.

“Why the hell did no one wake me?” Dean asks because somehow, that's the first thing he thinks of saying. “My alarm didn't go off.”

“Mine either,” Cas says, and he won't look Dean in the face. It's obvious that he didn't want to wake him, though Dean doesn't know why. “We all just kind of… gathered here, it wasn't planned.”

“Kay, but what's going on?”

Dean is very alert; he hasn't been this awake since driving Jess, Sam and himself to California and feeling responsible for three lives instead of just one. There's a knot in his stomach that's just _there_ , Dean didn't even notice when it happened.

“I don't know,” Charlie whimpers and when Dean's eyes finally land on her, he is surprised to see a genuine mess instead of their fearless (okay, maybe almost-fearless) leader. She is on the verge of trembling, which Dean knows could easily lead to a panic attack with her, and he hates himself for asking the question in such a demanding way.

“There's no reception,” Bela informs him, as if he wasn't the first one to notice last night, “and we don't know what time is it. Every watch and clock is stuck on six thirteen in the evening. Which is why your alarm didn't go off.”

“Fucking hell,” Dean mutters and he sits his ass down on one of the empty chairs, between Kevin and Jo.

“Exactly what I said,” Jo comments, which earns her a glare from her mother.

And once again, there's the silence. Dean now understands that it happens because none of them knows what to say. Possibly because there are too many things that they _could_ be saying. For example, the camp is supposed to start today. How are the parents going to contact them if they need directions – and how are they going to stay in touch with their kids? For example, how are they supposed to schedule anything at all without a working watch between them?

And, more importantly – how the hell is this happening? It _can't_ be happening, right?

“This is insane,” Charlie says after a long while, still fidgety in her chair. Her leg is bouncing violently up and down, up and down.

“It's probably just some weird signal glitch,” Dorothy says, not very convincingly. “They get them all the time in Maine.”

“Yeah, but that's during blizzards and shit,” Victor says and for a second, literally everyone in the cafeteria hates him. A weird signal glitch sounds unlikely and Dorothy didn't sound too convinced herself, but they would have believed her in a heartbeat.

“Fuck it,” Charlie spits out, and even though Ellen is probably cringing from all the foul language – totally hypocritical, by the way, Dean's heard her say 'fuck' at least a million times – she doesn't say anything. “We'll just stay put. One of the campers is bound to have a phone with a working clock.”

“Yeah,” Castiel agrees eagerly and they all nod their heads. It's better than thinking about what's going on and trying to figure it out – there's no way they would. It's better to _pretend_ they're not thinking about it.

There's no denying that this is weird. Literally no denying that something's not right – that it's not just a signal glitch or whatever Dorothy called it.

Dean, sitting in the cooled-down cafeteria, feels weird. He feels trapped, and it's probably just his mind working too hard and trying too desperately to come up with an explanation, but he feels like time has actually _stopped_ moving around them. There's a weird stillness to the air, even though the sun seems to be rising as usual and the day grows gradually hotter. Somehow, though, everything feels _unmoving_. As if they were all tied together with an invisible rope, unable to free themselves.

He shakes his head. That's stupid, paranoid thinking. And he won't bring it up because it's stupid.

“Charlie's right,” Bela agrees when they all fall silent again instead of moving or doing anything. “Just let’s get moving, sitting here is driving me nuts.”

Eating their breakfast in silence and a with new odd feeling that could be described as the opposite of togetherness, they all rush to leave the cafeteria and then scatter across the camp. To silence the nagging voice inside Dean's head, he entertains his thoughts with more Cas, but that ends up troubling him just the same.

The thing is, the paranoia never goes away. The rest of the morning, Charlie never stops balancing that thin line of trembling and not-trembling. And there's fear – not a single one of them speaks of it, but with every time they check their phones just to see that there's still no signal and the time's still stuck on the same three digits, it grows.

But when the kids get there, it'll be fine. Their phones will be fine. Everything will be fine.

 

 

///

 

 

You might have expected this, but the kids never arrive. Camp Forestress remains empty, aside from the counselors.

It's almost late afternoon before anyone says it.

“I think it's still yesterday,” Kevin tells them when they gather for dinner. Charlie is, as could be expected, a mess. She's hugging herself.

“I mean, there's zero chance that every single car was in a car accident and literally all the parents and kids are dead. Right?” she asks, as if she actually needed confirmation. Dorothy nods sadly. “What the fuck, guys. What the fuck is going on?”

“I think we should all calm down,” Ellen says. She's been mostly quiet – she is the guard, the mom, but she decided to take a step back when she agreed to come here. They're all like children at the moment, though, and they clearly need someone to hold their hands. Ellen comes to the rescue – not that she has all the answers in the world, but she is really, really damn good at organizing those who do. “You were saying, kid?” she asks, turning to Kevin.

They're all less surprised than they should be by the fact that Ellen so much as entertains the idea.

“I was just saying,” Kevin says, his eyes wide, “That we're still stuck in yesterday. I mean, not that I believe in time travel. But the clocks stopped at six last night. So I just – what if some – some weird thing went boom and now we're somehow stuck in time? Or a loop or whatever?”

“So like Groundhog Day? The movie with Bill Murray?” Aaron asks, their eyebrows knit tight together.

“I haven't seen that movie,” Cas whispers, dumbfounded.

“It's about this reporter guy who keeps waking up on the same day because he needs to figure out his -”

Ellen waves her hand. “Pop culture movie reviews later, okay, honey?” she says. It's kind enough but her voice trembles at the end of it, which unsettles them all. Nothing is right. Dean has the urge to grab Cas' hand again, and never let go. He needs to hold on to someone. The concept of time was the one thing you could always rely on, but apparently that's fucked now.

“I'm sorry,” Aaron apologizes quickly, shrugging at Cas. “So I mean, what kind of loop are we thinking?”

“I have no clue,” Kevin says. “That's as far as my theory goes. I don't know what's going on.”

“I think we should take the Jeep for a drive,” Ellen says. They all look at her like she's gone mad before they realize what she means. Just kidding – she has to explain it before they get it. “I mean, we're kind of stranded here. It makes sense to go out and check out if the nearest town has the same kind of issue, you know?”

“Yes,” Charlie latches on to the idea. “That's smart. I'll go.”

“You won't go alone, honey,” Ellen tells her soothingly. “You're in no state to drive. I'll go with you. Any other takers?”

“I'll come with,” Dorothy volunteers almost immediately. Dean can bet she's doing that just to be close to Charlie – and good thing, too, because she's been incredible at keeping her relatively calm. There have been no panic attacks as far as Dean knows.

“I'll drive,” Dean suggests. “But there's no way I'm driving that Jeep. We're taking the Impala.”

Charlie snickers and then full on laughs, the sound untamed, perhaps a little hysterical. Dean's remark makes the planned drive sound completely normal, and, naively, he feels like he did right by saying it.

“Be careful,” Cas tells him as they're about to leave the cafeteria and cross to the parking lot, catching the sleeve of his plaid shirt. Dean is taken aback by this sign of affection, and despite the situation, there's a butterfly tornado wreaking havoc in his stomach. He nods and offers a tiny smile, his cheeks burning red.

Dean, Dean, Dean. So selfish, as always, looking at the pretty boy rather than the situation they're facing. Or maybe that's just a coping mechanism.

 

 

///

 

 

“We can treat this as a supply run,” Charlie says almost excitedly once they get to the asphalt road and Dean takes a sharp turn left to the nearest town he remembers passing on his way here. She seems much more relaxed and okay, now that they have a goal in mind. “We need some paint to cover that ugly graffiti, guys. Also, food. I definitely miscalculated how much food we'd need.”

“Okay, but did you bring any money?” Dorothy asks, raining on her parade.

Charlie squints. “Fair enough. We can check out the _prices_ , then, and go back to actually buy the stuff later. That's what the pros do.”

“If you say so,” Dorothy laughs.

Dean's knuckles are turning positively white as he's gripping the steering wheel with all his might, checking the rearview mirror as if someone were following them. Ellen, too, has been staring out of the window, not taking part in the conversation. Even though she was the one sensible enough to come up with this plan, she also seems to be the most worried now – there's a prominent wrinkle creasing the spot between her eyebrows and her lips are pursed into a thin line.

Dean is not in the mood to joke, and not in the mood to put on any music, either. If it weren't for Dorothy constantly stimulating Charlie and keeping her mind off of the freaky shit that's been going on, they would be driving in complete silence, probably tense as all hell.

This drive, comfortable for two of them and extremely uncomfortable and nerve-wrecking for the other two, does _not_ prepare them for what's in store once they get to the town.

The fact is, the town itself is definitely not having the same issues.

Now, Dean might not be the smartest guy in the universe, but he can tell that whatever issues they're having at Camp Forestress, it's much, much worse here.

There are no people.

Or, well, that's not quite right. There are a lot of them as Dean drives down the main road. It's just that they're _frozen_ , just like their phones and watches.

They look like figurines, not like human beings – caught mid-movement. They’re sculptures not even Michelangelo could make – the perfect moment of movement, captured forever. This is it. Flexed muscle. Kids playing outside the ice-cream store, chasing after a dog. The dog, too, is frozen in place.

Dean kills the engine near the big chain grocery store, just not in the parking lot. They all stare out of the car windows, none of them knowing what to say.

Without a word of warning, Dean opens the driver's door and cringes for the first time as the hinges creak. It was always a sound that meant comfort – not now.

He doesn't close it behind him, as if keeping a backdoor open in case he needs to run, and he cautiously approaches a middle-aged man that was caught while smoking. The cigarette has long burned off and all that's left is the butt, trapped between the man's fingers. At least there's no secondhand smoke, Dean thinks with a sick sense of irony.

He's not really sure what he's doing, and he prefers not to think about it too much. He feels that if he actually considered this situation as something that's really happening, and not like another segment of his nightmare – which would be a plausible explanation at this point - he would freak out and start running for real.

He touches the man's hand. It's warm, clearly there's still blood pulsing through those veins, but even after Dean tries to rouse the man, he doesn't react. He just keeps standing there, and whatever was left of the ash on his cigarette drip-drips down like sand. Dean tries to nudge the man in the arm. Nothing. He doesn't even move, as if he really was a sculpture – plastic or concrete over his real physical body, trapping him inside.

This is where Dean freaks.

He tries his best not to run and mostly, he succeeds – he walks back to the car really, really fast, and he slams the door behind him as if he was trying to keep out the plague. Maybe he is.

“Let's go back,” Charlie says very, very quietly. “Dean, let's go back. Right now.”

“Yeah,” Dean breathes, as if in a daze, and those fingers that touched the frozen man tremble like leaves as he goes to start the engine. They're running after all.


	5. v.

The others' reactions are, of course, terrified. They don't want to accept it at first – the sole idea of people being frozen, and them being stuck in time for no reason (that they know of) is too much.

“That's literally impossible,” Aaron states and the rest join them without a trace of doubt in their voices.

“What exactly happened? Details. Give us details,” Bela orders. Her voice is stone-cold, her eyebrows knit tight together. She's scared.

Charlie, Dean, Dorothy and Ellen are asked to retell their encounter over and over again until it sounds absurd and made up even to their ears – though Dean's hands remember the warm but somehow still dead skin of the cigarette man. He'll probably never forget that sensation, and it's thanks to this that he zones out for a good portion of their talk.

He starts paying attention again when Jo asks, “Okay, but what exactly does that mean?” And it freaks him out about as much as touching that sleeping skin, because he _doesn't know_.

“It means Kevin's theory is right,” Claire says; the very first thing she’s said throughout the whole conversation. And she says it so matter-of-factly that no one even thinks to question her.

“Impossible,” Aaron repeats again, but even though the rest join them again, they don't know what else to ask, what else to say to make it sound possible or give a reasonable explanation.

Dean's chest feels tight. “People don't just get stuck in time.”

His mind is turning cartwheels – his concern grows and grows until it's monumental and he's thinking, _did the whole world freeze_ , Sam included? Are they the only people left moving? Is this the end of the world, in a way not a single one of them expected? It grows and grows and grows and – he can't think about it anymore, so he stops.

“This is like a Doctor Who episode,” Kevin murmurs, more to himself than to them.

“No pop culture references,” Charlie reminds him.

“No, but I mean -” Kevin says, his big eyes on Charlie, “that I never thought it would be like this. Doctor Who episodes look like fun. This is terrifying.”

Subconsciously, they all look to Ellen, Jo even going as far as to ask, “Mom?” very gently. But Ellen is out of answers – she's terrified as well.

“My only suggestion would be to get the hell out of here,” Victor says eventually, and even though most of them would probably agree, one stern _no_ from Charlie cools them all down. She isn’t ready to give this place up. Leaving would feel like running away – or like running towards something even worse, if Dean's right and _everyone_ is stuck.

“We're just stalling if we stay here,” Bela argues, the only one who tries, but the sole idea of _stalling_ makes zero sense at the moment and no one responds to her.

“We're going to treat this like a storm,” Charlie tells them in the end, fake-defiance in her voice. “We'll wait it out. It's one of those freak incidents. It'll pass.”

“You're the captain,” Ellen tells her, a hand on Charlie's shoulder as a soft sort of comfort. “We'll stay if you want us to, but at some point, if it doesn't pass, we're gonna have to move. Okay?”

“Yeah,” Charlie nods, “Just give it a couple of days.”

This is the breaking point, Dean will realize later – the moment where they stop treating it as something completely unnatural and weird and start regarding it as, well, as a storm that they need to wait out, like Charlie said. It's always easier to ignore the unlikely.

It's late evening by the time they all retreat to their cabins, and they do so silently. Dean almost wishes he had a cabin of his own – he knows Cas will ask questions, and he doesn't want to answer. They've abandoned the topic of their trip into town as the discussion dragged on and they started talking about supplies and food and those weird dreams, but it's still so very fresh in Dean's mind.

“Do you think it's real?” Cas asks when they're both in their beds with the lights turned off. This _is_ impossible – the electricity is fine, it's just that their phones and watches won't work – and that the people in town are literally frozen. Kind of like a Grimm's fairytale – and those rarely ever had happy endings.

It's not the question Dean was expecting. “What do you mean?”

“I know that collective hallucinations don't actually exist,” Cas says into the dark room, “But what if somehow we're all dreaming the same thing?”

Dean turns onto his side and he can't really see Cas, but he likes to imagine that he's turned too and they're facing each other in the dark. The cabin is small – maybe if Dean stretched his hand out and Cas did as well, their fingertips would brush, and they wouldn't feel so damned trapped and scared anymore.

“I don't think so,” Dean whispers.

 

 

///

 

 

The next day proves that they've somehow been caught in a loop – not that there was much doubt before.

Night might have become day again, but they're all certain that the stopped clocks mean they've stuck themselves in time as well, somehow – they all agree with Kevin's theory now, especially after Claire sided with him so decisively.

They can't pinpoint what it is that gives it away, maybe something in the way the leaves ruffle in the wind as if they've all seen the same pattern before, but they can _tell_.

At first they try their best – try to figure out the computer and whether they could get the wi-fi working, but not even Charlie can crack it, and she can usually crack anything as long as there are computers involved. They keep venturing further and further off the camp's premises to see if there's any reception or anything there. No such luck.

If time were an island, they would be stranded on it – _in_ it.

By afternoon, the confusion and shock finally wear them down and their careful daily routine is shaken. They mope around not knowing what time it is and they all snack at different times, missing each other by seconds or minutes but not wanting to reconnect and talk anyway. They are all painfully lost in thought, perhaps trying to figure out, like Cas, if this is real at all, or burning way too many brain cells by trying to figure out what exactly happened.

Dean is just finishing his dinner in silence (though he's not alone in the cafeteria – Ellen and Bela are talking in hushed voices on the other side of the room) when Cas comes in with Claire. Unlike the rest of the campers, they seem excited and relieved to see a familiar face, and Dean doesn't protest at all when Cas walks over to him and Claire.

“Haven't seen you guys in a bit,” Dean says with a soft smile, pushing away his empty plate as Cas and Claire grab their own, filled with Ellen's delicious pasta. It can't be that bad if pasta still tastes like heaven, right?

“We've been talking, mostly,” Castiel says and he nods towards Claire, though she can't see it – _because_ she can't see it. This means she's opened up about some stuff, and that's good.

“Really,” Dean says, raising his eyebrow. “Riddle me this, then. Why are we not frozen in time? I mean, not like those people in town, anyway?”

This has been really bothering him, and it's probably safe to bet that the others have thought about it as well. What makes them different, what sets them aside? They're as much a group of people as those in town, and yet they're still living breathing _moving_ , not standing still like ancient Greek sculptures.

Castiel sighs and Claire offers a shrug. “We were talking about my parents. My mom, actually,” she says, completely changing the subject.

“What about her?” Dean asks, trying to keep the conversation going even as Claire and Cas stuff themselves with food – especially Cas. Claire seems to be merely playing with hers.

Claire smiles, her spoon making circles in the vegetable soup Ellen made. “About how beautiful she is. I love my mom, you know,” she says just as there's thunder outside. Dean saw those dark clouds gathering on his way to the cafeteria and the idea of a thunderstorm while they're stuck in time is scarier than he'd expect. “I mean,” she says quickly as if remembering herself, “she doesn't really understand me, but she used to. She used to tell me the most wonderful stories and we traveled a lot. That's why I've been to Montana a few times before.”

“What kind of stories?” Dean asks, done with food and leaning his elbows on the table casually. He’s spent too much time in his own head today and he's happy for any sort of distraction.

Claire, still circling the bowl with her spoon, shrugs. “Fairytales. Stories that made the world seem better than it actually was. Wizards who grant you wishes, that sort of stuff.”

“My mom read Greek myths to me when I was a kid,” Castiel says. He's moved on to the pasta, and Dean watches him as he gets the food on his fork and then makes it disappear in his perfectly shaped mouth. He's quick to look away when Cas catches him staring.

“My mom sang songs to me,” Dean says, clearing his throat. “She had a beautiful singing voice, my mom.”

Claire smiles. “My mother sang to me as well. Especially when we were on the road. I couldn't sleep and she would hold me close to her and she would sing old folk songs that _her_ mom sang to her. It would always help. The road seemed better. My mother was so beautiful,” she says. She stops moving the spoon and she breathes out, the exhale so deep and loud it feels as if her mouth was right next to Dean's ear.

He shivers involuntarily and exchanges a quick look with Cas – just now, Claire didn't even sound like a regular girl. The cloud she had around her when they found her by the entrance envelops her again and she seems to disappear into it before she straightens her back again and smiles at Dean.

“This has been a weird day. I don't think I'm hungry at all. Do you think Ellen would mind?”

Dean comes out of his own moment and he looks her up and down. She seems tiny, except for the little bit of chub on her chin. He shrugs. “Nah. She's used to worse from Jo, I'm sure. Give it here.” He takes the bowl with soup and as he gets up, his chair screeches across the linoleum. “You sure you don't want some pasta, though? It's delicious. I can get it for you.”

“No,” Claire shakes her head.

“I'll have seconds, though,” Cas says, looking up from his nearly-empty plate. He hands it to Dean with a sheepish smile.

“I'm not your servant, you know,” he jokes, but he takes the plate. Cas gives him a look – a weird one that makes Dean feel like he'll _wink_ to top it all off, and it's almost a surprise when he doesn't.

It's intense and he can't help but notice that Claire sees it too, and he clears his throat again. “Be right back,” he murmurs and he turns around quickly to go get the food – quick enough, he hopes, that his blush went unnoticed.

The later it gets, the more the cafeteria fills up. Voices ring over one another and Dean feels a little bit smothered – weighed down by their situation, he feels dry and thirsty and hungry all at the same time, even though the summer air is humid, and he literally just ate. He exchanges a brief look with Cas and he seems to understand.

Quietly, so as not to interrupt the conversation the others seem to be engaged in, they walk out of the cafeteria. They leave Claire behind – she looks okay, talking with Kevin about nature and whatnot, safe and sound.

Even outside – well, _especially_ outside, given that the cafeteria has AC and the outside does not – the air feels humid. Dean can't help but think about time not moving around them and _making_ the air feel like honey against his skin, but he dismisses the thought.

Looking at the sky, Dean sees that the thunder clouds have dissipated or the wind blew them in the direction of someone else – maybe the frozen town won't mind getting rained on, however unsettling a thought it is. The sun is back in the sky, going down slowly but surely.

“What do you want to do?” Cas asks once the door closes behind them and they're facing the parking lot on one side, the cabins on the other.

There's not much to do, honestly. It's not until you’re in a situation like this that you realize how much you depend on various electronic devices. Best he could do, Dean thinks, is play a game on his phone and have Cas look over his shoulder.

“Dunno,” he shrugs, “Any suggestions?”

“I think it's a shame we can't see the sunset over the tress. Not a lot of it, at least,” Cas says.

They both look at each other. It's cheesy but it's literally the only thing they could do. Dean smiles. “You wanna drive somewhere?”

“No,” Cas shakes his head, giving a smile back. He catches Dean's hand in his, completely erasing the weird uneasy feeling from when Dean touched the frozen man, and tugs at it. “Come on. I noticed something earlier today.”

Dean lets himself be dragged across the premises without a single word. His brain is too focused on their hands touching. What a peculiar thing they are, rushing through a camp, holding hands, chasing something Dean doesn't even know. The two of them – no one else, but the two of them – somehow connecting. The connection is the realest thing Dean has known since time stopped existing. Perhaps even before then.

“Where're you taking me?” Dean laughs, because this feels like the summer when he was sixteen, his parents were still alive, and there was a dark-haired girl, Lisa, always taking him places, teaching him how to run through a sunflower field and have it feel like flying. He's flying now – with Castiel, dark-haired as well, squeezing his hand.

“You'll see,” Castiel assures him.

They don't stop until they get to the very last cabin – a camper one, not a counselor one, standing opposite the one with the GET OUT graffiti on it. Cas makes them circle it so they get to it from behind, and Dean sees a small grass hill. It looks as if someone kicked rain-wet sand and created a little bump that got overgrown with grass with time – Dean can see, though, that if you stepped on it, you would be able to pull yourself up and onto the cabin's roof.

“Oh,” he laughs, nudging Cas in the shoulder. They have stopped holding hands now that they're here, and it makes Dean's chest tighten. “Good catch.”

“Thank you,” Cas smiles and nods towards the cabin. “Come on.”

Dean watches Cas as he jumps up the little grass hill, catches the edge of the roof and pulls himself up as if it was nothing. Dean would expect something like that from Kevin, who is all muscle, but not from Cas – though he seems to be the same after all. His shoulder blades work and his back flexes as he pulls himself up, and Dean is definitely doing the most male thing in the world, straight-out staring at Cas’ ass before he gets his knees on the surface and jumps over. Cas has made it. That's pretty much all Dean needs.

Cas stretches out his arm. “I'll help you up,” he says with a smile, breathing only a little heavily.

Dean looks at him and at the sun setting just over Cas's shoulder, and he shrugs. Hell, why not.

He gets a headstart, running up the hill and jumping, catching Cas' arm. He gets a boost when his foot hits the cabin and they both manage to pull him up.

Laughing, they shuffle over towards the middle of the roof and sit there cross-legged, side by side, the sun hot on their faces, low enough for them not to have to shield their eyes. There's no other place to run, but Dean wouldn't mind if they held hands again. He doesn't know why that is.

At least their knees bump. That's enough.

“Are you a sunset or sunrise person?” Castiel asks, brushing his palms against his jeans to get rid of any remaining dust from when he pulled himself up.

Dean shrugs. “I like both.”

“I like sunsets better,” Cas says casually, squinting into the sun. “Sunrises mean a fresh start, yadda yadda, but they can't compare to this. I mean, look at it. Is there anything more beautiful than this? Be honest.”

 _You_. “I guess not,” Dean laughs nervously. “You're in your element, huh?”

Castiel shakes his head and smiles, but he takes Dean's mocking kindly. “Are you in your element, here?” he asks.

“I don't know. I think we've been pretty thrown off by the whole timeless thing, so it's hard to say.” Dean scratches his knee, looking into the distance as the sun half-disappears over the horizon. He wonders when the timelessness will uproot them, when they will be forced to run. He hopes it won't be now, now that he's here with Cas. It _is_ really damn beautiful. “I don't know what my element is,” he adds quietly.

Cas looks at him instead of the sun. “What do you mean?”

“I had this job,” Dean says suddenly, not knowing where the urge to talk about it comes from. He looks down at the roof's surface instead of Cas – there's a lot of dust and sand and a lot of dry leaves scattered across it all. Bird poop, too. Dean just hopes he isn't sitting in it. “I was a mechanic, which I know isn't much, but it paid the bills, you know? And I'm happy when I’m working on cars and stuff.”

“I think that's a good job,” Castiel says, obviously trying to comfort him – he has no way of knowing that that's not the part Dean needs comforting for.

Dean shrugs his arm. “Anyway, the guy who owned the garage decided to let it go. So. Yeah.”

“Oh. I'm sorry.”

“It's okay. It's just...” Dean trails off and picks up one of those dry leaves, though it crumbles between his fingers almost immediately. He sighs. “I never questioned that job and it's really all I've ever done. Now that it's gone, I automatically wanted to look for other places that might be hiring mechanics, but is that something I want to do? Shit, how do I even know?”

Dean doesn't really expect an answer, and Cas doesn't give him one. Dean appreciates that, in a way – it means no unnecessary bullshit, no lies, no vague comfort just for the sake of comfort. It's a sincere silence and silent compassion.

For a few minutes, they sit quietly and really look at the sunset. Well, Cas does, at least. Dean? Not so much. He likes sunsets just fine, but he doesn't love them as much as Cas does. There's something he likes more – and it just so happens to be the boy sitting next to him. So after a minute or two, Dean risks it and slowly, ever so slowly he turns his head to the side.

This is when he realizes that he might yet learn to love sunsets.

 

 

 

 

 

While it's just a semi-ugly orangey red on the sky, with an afterglow of dark blue that perhaps promises wind and a thunderstorm later, it looks like a painting on Cas' face. No, _Cas' face_ looks like a painting. It bathes him in warm, saturated colors – his skin turns from pale to deep to something Dean recognizes as _summer._ His eyes look dark blue instead of light blue, but vibrant – Dean doesn't even know what to compare them to, they're the eighth world wonder.

His lips are a different world entirely, though. There's a small grin tugging at them just where Dean can see it, slight creases in skin where wrinkles could be if he smiled his wide, wide smile. Dean can't stop looking at them, until the second Cas notices and looks at him and Dean nearly gets whiplash he turns away so fast.

He wonders what _he_ looks like with the colors of the sunset, _and_ a violent blush on his face. Like a tomato, probably.

“How can the sun be setting if we're frozen in time?” Cas inquires quietly, but it's as if he was asking, _why were you looking at me like that?_

“I don't know,” Dean mumbles, nearly inaudible, and God knows it's the answer to both questions.

“Maybe it's a ghost,” Cas suggests jokingly, “Or the same something that left the graffiti on the cabin there.”

Dean snorts. “If it's a ghost where is it? Time to attack, I'd say, so we can get it over with. I'm tired of living through sunrises and sunsets with nothing to show for it.” The time. The time moving across his skin, that's what he misses, even though it tugs at his pores and makes him age and face things he’d rather not.

Cas' fingers rest over Dean's on the roof's surface slightly. “Aaron is really into palm readings. They showed me how to do it.”

“What?” Dean asks dumbly, looking to the side without thinking about it because the sentence surprises him so much. They're so, so close. If Dean leaned in, it wouldn't even be that much of a stretch to kiss.

Castiel smiles at him, the lines around his mouth now really appearing, and he runs his forefinger across the back of Dean's hand. It's strange and somewhat intimate at the same time. The warm summery colors darken on Cas' face as the sun finally sets and leaves them in the twilight.

“Do you want me to become your personal fortune teller?” Cas suggests with a laugh hidden in his voice.

Dean knows this is the vague comfort he originally didn't want – but it's not a tap on the shoulder nor a stupid 'eh, it'll be okay'. So Dean nods despite himself and once again, he lets Cas take his hand, much more gently now.

Cas' fingers are as precise and soft as Dean had imagined. They brush against Dean's, they take his palm, they trace the lines that criss-cross it. His face is fake-focused when Dean looks at him, but he doesn't look for long – he is too mesmerized by their hands.

His palm lies in Cas', rests there like it belongs. Soon enough, both of Cas' hands cradle it and hold it as if it was a beating heart.

“Well,” Cas says after a few seconds, and even now when Dean looks at him, Cas is still studying his hand. “I think you'll be very, very happy, if you let yourself be. It says so right here.” Cas' hand covers Dean's, palm to palm. It's warm and comforting and Dean's insides curl in on themselves, birthing butterflies that riot not only in his stomach – they take his veins, his legs, his everything. Even his lips tremble with the movement of their wings.

“You're making that up,” he whispers. The evening grows almost cold around them, though Dean realizes that it's just him, shivering, because Cas is only holding his hand and Dean feels like he's never been held this way before.

Castiel looks up from Dean's palm and smiles sheepishly. “Maybe.”

Quietly, subconsciously, Dean's fingers brush against Cas' slightly, holding on. “Thank you.”

“Don't,” Cas shakes his head, his hand shifting until it envelopes Dean's and their fingers tangle together. He squeezes. “You...” Cas says and trails off, looking at Dean, _seeing_ Dean. And it's like he doesn't understand him – doesn't really know what he's seeing but maybe it's a wonder – it's like he's looking at Dean the same way Dean looks at him.

Their lips actually brush before Dean realizes what's going on and how much he wants it – and before he pulls away. There is that brief moment of pure touch, where Cas' eyes are closed and Dean's wide open, and they're so clearly breathing the same air.

Dean's breath hitches at the back of his throat and he actually blanks for a solid few seconds, just blinking and shuffling away from Cas on his ass, pulling his hand away as if he were stung.

“I – I'm sorry -” he stutters awkwardly, the sun no longer in his eyes. He looks away – looks at the darkening sky, at the ground and the woods stretching beneath them, and he fights the urge to jump off the cabin's roof and run away.

God, how he wanted that kiss. How the world seemed like a perfect place – before Dean pulled away. It was as if time was about to start again and Dean stopped it with his stupidity.

Because this is too much. He is feeling too much. He only knows how to run away from it – not how to face it.

“No, shit, Dean, I'm sorry,” Castiel says quickly, his hand gripping Dean's forearm.

It's electrifying, to feel Cas' hand just a layer of fabric away, almost skin on skin. But Dean can't. He wants to, but he can't. They live too far apart from each other and Dean can't jump into this, because it would mean losing it in just two weeks and he just can't, he just can't keep losing things and people.

“It's fine,” Dean says with a squeezed throat. “I'm just not ready for anything like this right now . Let's not talk about it.”

What he means, of course, is _let's not talk about anything_. Something shuts close inside him. _He_ shuts it close. Without a word, his heart still racing in his chest like a horse nearly beaten to death, he jumps off the roof, stumbling and almost tripping over the grass hill. Cas follows him, but they don't talk.

To feel so close – Dean hasn't been this lonely in a long time.


	6. vi.

Of course Dean has another one of those dreams. It seems kind of fitting after all that's happened that day.

He's scared from the very beginning this time. He parks his nice car by his nice house. The facade doesn't look brand new, which is the first thing that throws him off and he immediately expects the worst.

There's graffiti just above the door: ugly big letters that spell out GET IN.

Those words slump down in Dean's stomach and take root, and his chest is tight when he approaches the door and actually unlocks it. There's a distinct smell of potatoes and perhaps roasted meat from the very first second he steps in.

His steps are light and cautious as he makes his way through the house. Even though it's a dream and he knows it's a dream, he can't control it – his feet carry him towards what he knows to be the kitchen and he can't stop it, though he wants to. God, he wants to. There's not a single part of him that wants to see that faceless creature again.

When he steps into the kitchen, he spots something else that's different – he knows who his partner is. There's no mistaking the dark messy hair and those back muscles. And his partner is wearing those worn-out black jeans.

His partner is Castiel.

Dean walks up to him, his heart thunder-beating inside his chest, loud and impossible to calm down. Any second now, Castiel will turn around and there will be no ocean blue eyes, no slight stubble, no kind smile. There will be nothing and it will swallow Dean whole.

The dream progresses on its own – he walks up to Cas and hugs him from behind, breathing in his scent and brushing his lips against his neck. “Hi,” he says quietly into the skin and despite himself, he smiles. “What's cookin', cookie?”

Castiel laughs. It's such a real-world sound, not an echo at all, so similar to what Cas sounds like in real life. Dean is terrified of the reveal, terrified to see the face without a face.

“You're ridiculous,” Castiel says and this is new as well – his partner has never spoken a single word in these dreams.

And then Cas starts turning around. Something tangible and rough-edged lodges itself at the back of Dean's throat and he is incapable of breathing for a brief second. Castiel turns around so, so slowly, yet Dean isn't ready when they finally face each other.

There's no need to scream. There's no face without a face; there's just Cas. Those ocean blue eyes; the smile.

Dean experiences happiness he hasn't known since childhood – it bubbles up inside him and he laughs, grabbing Castiel's face carelessly and kissing him right on the mouth.

It's something he wasn't capable of doing in real life: even though he wanted to, he got so, so scared. Kissing Cas seemed like too much, a step into the darkest dark even though Cas meant nothing but light.

Everything is possible in a dream, though – bravery, for example. So Dean kisses Cas relentlessly, not missing his chance like he did in real life, and he laughs into it carelessly, not a worry in the world. This is the apple pie life he wants, he realizes – there's no need for a fancy fence or someone to cook dinner for him every single day. The apple pie life Dean wants is Cas.

“Hi, hi, hi,” Cas mutters into Dean's skin and smiles into it, pulling Dean close and closer. He runs his hands down Dean's arms. “Is everything alright?”

 _Sweetheart_ and _darling_ are woven into those words, love the undertone. It makes Dean dizzy. “Everything is…” he says, kissing Cas again, “alright, yeah.”

The dream shifts into unknown territory and suddenly they are two naked bodies moving across the floor. The beautiful and sad thing about dreams is that there's never any teasing, no getting ready, no awkward talk about condoms and protection and what the other wants. In dreams, you always just _know_ , and all it takes is a simple shift, a snap, as if a handy editor worked his trick on a movie, and then Dean's lying on the cold kitchen tiles with Cas inside him, rocking them both gently.

This feels like a first time. Dean doesn't know why it is so, but he would bet his life that lovers are this soft and gentle when it's their first time – all careful hands and a pace that lulls you into temporary or permanent love, that depends on what kind of first time it is.

And God, Dean lets himself be lulled. He doesn't question it.

Cas has his hands roaming across Dean's chest and even through the dreamy haze of noises, Dean can make out endearments that make him squeeze and tremble around Cas.

“So beautiful for me, Dean, you are so beautiful for me, to me,” Castiel is whispering above him, thrusting into him slowly, each movement long and precise. and it's driving Dean insane.

 _Oh, God_ , he wants to say, but there is no God in dreams, there's only your partner and his naked smooth skin and his body enveloping yours and his cock inside you and his hands caressing you and his words healing you in places you didn't know were hurting.

“Oh,” Dean says, as if surprised, when Cas hits him _there_ , “Cas,” he adds when he realizes it's nothing but him, closer to Dean than anyone has ever gotten, even though it's just a dream. He could cry.

The dream shifts again and the edge of the table in Cas' office is digging into Dean's ass sharply. Castiel is there with him, fucking him fast and rough, their foreheads touching and their bodies slamming against each other. Dean is only a couple of inches away from slipping off, but it's too good to move, even to prevent that from happening. He trusts Cas to hold him.

“Yeah,” Dean's mumbling, his hot breath on Cas' face, only inches separating them, “Fuck me like that, fuck me, come on,” he chants, his body and voice both spent and hungry for release.

Cas' hands are gripping Dean's hips, his fingers digging in, and Dean's toes are painfully curled, on the verge of cramping. He's feeling too much.

“Dean,” Cas breathes out but it's more of a growl, and it makes Dean moan, the knot in his lower stomach tightening and tightening and tightening.

And the dream shifts and they are stumbling up the stairs, mouths mashed together, tripping over their feet. Holding each other up against the wall and kissing, licking. Hands everywhere – a tipsy night out and they barely made it home. Somehow, Dean knows that if they were thirty seconds later, they would have stayed in the car and fucked there, the alcohol still making its way through their veins.

This is a moment, Dean knows, where they've been together for a long, long time, but desire and passion still overwhelms them.

The dream shifts and they're in their bedroom – though it doesn't look like one. There is a bed with clean linen and fresh bedsheets that smell like citrus, but the walls are covered in moss and there's no lamp, no nothing. There's grass for their carpet and flowers blooming around the window. This, however, is a dream. Perhaps it represents Dean's heart, or maybe it’s because they are so close to the forest, but whatever it is, it makes perfect sense.

The air in the room is humid, the light glowing and mild, and their skin glistens with sweat. Dean's uneven breathing matches the sounds of the nature around them.

Dean and Cas are in the bed, their skin sliding against the sheets, and Dean is sitting on top of Castiel, filled to the brim and stretched to the maximum. He's breathing heavily, panting, his palms flat on Castiel's chest.

“Please, move,” Castiel says in an exhale and Dean does so, with a moan.

It's his own moan that wakes him up – he startles and he's shocked to find himself back in the cabin, where there's no moss growing up the walls, nor is there any grass, just the old wooden floor and the old purple wallpaper. He prays to God that for a change, his moans and words stayed in the dream and he wasn't actually making those noises out loud in this world.

It's still dark outside and he can't exactly check the time, but Dean can _feel_ that the morning is about to begin. He chances a peek at Castiel's bed – Cas is sound asleep, his back to Dean, and God, this is awful because Dean still remembers the way Cas' back looked when he walked up to him and then they kissed and then – fuck.

There's a definite problem going on in his pants. Like, for sure. Fuck fuck fuck fuck.

“Fuck,” Dean whispers for good measure and frantically – though trying to keep quiet – he gathers up his clothes. He needs to disappear _quick_. There's no telling when Cas will wake up and Dean doesn't know how he'd explain – if there even would be any explaining – God, he just doesn't _know_.

When he practically runs out of their cabin, the air outside is morning-fresh and the world around him isn't actually all that dark. The sun is nowhere to be seen yet, but Dean can see where he's walking as he makes his way towards the showers. He's in his sneakers, his heels over the bent heels of the shoes, and he's only wearing his shirt.

It would be okay, he's not too cold, if only it weren't for Victor walking out of the shower building just as Dean is entering it.

At first, Victor doesn't even seem to realize there's anything peculiar about this – but Dean gives himself away, thrusting his clothes in front of his crotch way too quickly.

“It's not what it looks like,” Dean tries lamely.

Victor snorts. “Right.”

“I _will_ use violence if you tell anyone,” Dean tries again, this time eliciting a nudge in the shoulder and yet another snort.

“You do you. Literally.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but they part with a smile and Dean is pretty sure he can trust Victor not to tell anyone. His heart grows heavy the second he steps into the showers building, completely alone now, though.

He hasn't exactly grown to love this place – the stalls and the cold tiles still intimidate him, just like the changing room. He takes his clothes with him and walks to the stall farthest from the door of the changing room, then he places the clothes on the ground a good few feet away from him and strips.

There's a good chance there won't be anyone else wanting to take a shower right now – it's too early, only Victor with his insomnia would be awake enough at this hour to venture here.

Victor _and_ Dean.

He steps into the stall and starts the water, tweaks it until it's warm enough. Startled, he realizes he never _did_ check his watch or his phone – he simply assumed that they were still stuck. It's a strange kind of limbo and with a sigh, Dean realizes it's only part of why he's… _sad_.

As the water starts hitting his shoulders, the muscles relaxing, he closes his eyes. Yeah, he's sad alright.

Of course it's because of the kiss. The kiss is worse than the dream – though the dream has caused a problem as well. The kiss, though. The kiss.

Dean doesn't even bother trying not to think about it. It's funny to think that it was just the briefest of moments before he chickened out in the worst way possible. It hurts, in a way, because he knows he's the one to blame – he could be squeezed next to Cas right now. He could have at least kissed back, they could have at least tried – there's no way of telling it would have led anywhere, but what if it did?

Dean knows why he backed out. He's a coward, really, scared to his bones. Because what if this goes away once time starts brushing against his skin again? What if this is temporary, what if _Cas'_ feelings are temporary? What if Cas wanted to kiss him because there was nothing else to do – just the sunset and Dean's lips.

(Cas is not like this and Dean knows it. And yet.)

With another sigh, he gets to business, because it doesn't seem to go away and he doesn't exactly feel like talking it down, imagining dead kittens and whatnot. It's kind of a miserable act, you see, helping him spiral even further down into self-pity and guilt and feeling like he wasted his chance. (Which he did.)

Dean touches the cold tiles of the shower stall, his palm flat against it, his fingers spread. He'd much rather be leaning against Cas. He closes his eyes and with his other hand, he slowly goes down to his cock, still painfully hard, and squeezes. The water's never-ending stream is his only comfort.

He doesn't think about much. He'd expected his mind to be filled with images of Cas inside him or at least on top of him – images of Cas going down on him, or fantasizing about it being Cas' hand on him. None of that happens. Dean's mind is blank.

Even though it's real and he eventually works himself up to an orgasm, it's far less cathartic than the dream was. It's just a problem solved – his knees go wobbly, but they felt weak even before this, and his heartbeat echoes through his head loudly for a few seconds when he comes, but there's nothing pretty or exciting about it.

That's the thing. He'd much rather be leaning against Cas.

 

 

///

 

 

Perhaps it's not that surprising, but Dean spends his day, or whatever it is with time officially frozen, doing something he does really, really well.

Avoiding.

First and foremost, he avoids Cas. He's not ignoring him, exactly, but he doesn't say much more to him than the ordinary hello, and that's it. He knows how it looks – it makes it seem like he's offended because Cas tried to kiss him.

But hell, that's maybe better than going out and telling him that he had the most not-safe-for-work dream he’s had in probably over a year and Cas was definitely the other, also very not-safe-for-work part of it. He might as well walk up to him and ask him if his cock really is really as nice as it was in Dean's dreams.

So he holes up with Charlie, who's at the computer at the reception yet again, trying to get it to work. For some ridiculous reason, electricity has no trouble functioning, so everything's working properly as if life was just _normal_ , but once you want to get wifi or any kind of signal, there's nothing at all.

“This is _impossible_ ,” she grumbles. This is the most effort they've put into trying to figure out their situation, to be honest, even though they're well aware that sooner or later, they'll be forced to leave the camp again and check out other towns, other places. “I'm _good_ at computers.”

“Yeah, but you'd have to re-invent the internet, dude,” Dean tells her.

He's sitting cross-legged on the floor next to Charlie's chair, throwing an old baseball against the wall and trying to catch it the best he can. His mind won't focus on anything else anyway.

“I just don't understand,” Charlie complains, frustrated. She leans back in her chair and starts biting on her already short nails, glaring at the computer screen as if that was the root of all their trouble.

“Yeah, neither do I,” Dean says. He's tired of talking about this – partly because the last time he tried to discuss this, it led to an-almost kiss, which led to a definitely-sex dream, which led to him sitting here and moping around more than Claire, who actually has more reason to do so. “So what's up with you and Dorothy?” he asks to change the subject.

Charlie looks down at him like he just tried to steal her food. “What's that supposed to mean?”

Dean grins. “You've been hanging out an awful lot since we got here,” he informs her, “in case you hadn't noticed.”

She squints and considers him. She's already in a grumpy mood and this teasing doesn't help it – especially because Dean's right. Charlie and Dorothy have always been close, well, ever since Charlie first mentioned her. Charlie herself has been through quite a lot – a lot of rocky relationships, most of them short-term, ending in heartbreak after just a few weeks. It might just make sense now that Dean has seen her next to Dorothy. Long distance relationships suck and take bravery – Charlie has perhaps never even considered it, but she is so calm and glowy when she's next to Dorothy it's glaring.

“Well, what about you and Cas?” she strikes back like a snake, still frowning a little. She pulls her feet up on the chair with her, turning away from the computer completely.

Dean pulls away as if it physically hurt him, like a punch, and he blinks a few times. “What's _that_ supposed to mean?”

“You've been hanging out an awful lot since we got here, in case you hadn't noticed,” she tells him, using his own words against him. Which is infuriating, because it's not like Charlie's wrong, either.

Dean throws the baseball against the wall with force and doesn't even bother catching it. His hands lay in his lap and he looks down at them so as to avoid looking at her. “I dunno. It's just the situation, I guess. I mean, we're literally stuck in time and I share that cabin with him.”

“Oh, sweet summer child,” she says, tsk-ing. “That's not all, is it?”

Dean silently shakes his head.

“Cas is nice and Cas is reckless. I've known him for years and he plunges into everything headfirst. He doesn't doubt and he doesn't question, if he thinks something's right after one damn day, he's gonna go for it. Dreamy, huh? Naive? The opposite of you, Dean.” _But is he?_

“Well, what about Dorothy? What is she like?”

“She's a...” Charlie trails off, realizing that she's officially admitted to the parallel between them, and she blinks as well. Then she sighs. “Dorothy is a wanderess and I've been in love with her for a long, long time. But she doesn't normally do long term relationships and I am tired of going back and forth between women who don't seem to care much about me.”

“I think Dorothy cares a lot,” Dean says, looking up at Charlie and smiling a little. “And it's not that she changed for you – it's just that you came along, and it put things in perspective for her.”

“Like Cas for you?”

“I suppose so,” he says with a little, bitter laugh. “We almost kissed yesterday, or whatever, but I jumped back. I freaked out and I regret it but hey, so it goes. He might have put things into perspective, y'know, but we're still opposites. In some ways, at least.”

Charlie nudges his knee with her foot. “Maybe you shouldn't let that stop you. You might be opposites when it comes to relationships, but I think you're damn drift compatible when it comes to the rest.”

“Listen to your own advice, will you?” he laughs and bows his head again to hide his blush. Not even his best friend should be forced to see that.

They spend the afternoon together pretending that they're not at a temporarily failed attempt at a summer camp, and they only join the others for dinner, which is rice, peas and chicken breast – not that bad for a situation that feels almost apocalyptic.

Funnily enough, they've all seemed to have settled into this odd, odd situation – they don't even bring it up anymore. Dean thinks it's also partly because they simply choose to believe the whole stuck-in-time thing will finish like it started – on its own. So there's no point in talking about it, on and on and on forever (figuratively, in their case), right?

Dinner makes Dean realize another thing – it happens when he sees Cas walk into the cafeteria with Claire, both of them engaged in a debate that they don't interrupt to talk to the others.

Dean's been avoiding her as much as he's been avoiding Cas, and he literally cannot pinpoint why. Thinking about talking to her about anything other than mindless teasing makes his chest fill up with the same kind of tightness he feels when he looks at Cas and thinks about facing him – kissing him – being with him.

It has nothing to do with Claire, obviously, but seeing them together like this kind of slaps him awake – he didn't seek her out today at all, nor did he ask about how she was doing, even though she's probably the most unfortunate soul around here. No parents, no nothing. He should have asked, probably, but it didn't even occur to him.

He looks at them now, sitting next to each other and far away from Dean, and he sees a world he might never be a part of – not that he would have the guts to. He obviously didn't make up the kiss, but he wonders, for just a brief second, if Claire's connection to Cas is similar to Dean's and whether they're exaggerating it simply because they're two men who perhaps haven't been with anyone in quite some time.

Looking at Claire makes Dean feel uncomfortable for the first time and for all the wrong reasons – as far as those he can actually understand are concerned – and he tears his eyes away from her.

The initial cheeriness and talkativeness of the first couple of days has died out and aside from quiet talks, they mostly eat their dinner in silence, even though it's delicious and they all loudly thank Ellen for saving their lives yet again.

After dinner, they trail out of the cafeteria and to the campsite. They set up a really, really pitiful campfire and sit around. Even though there's only eleven of them, they mostly talk in pairs, quietly, so the other pairs don't hear.

Dean ends up sitting next to Jo (and Charlie next to Dorothy, so at least one of them has the guts to actually be near the person they like). It's a nice distraction – somehow, despite the fact that there hasn't been much to do the past couple of so-called days, they haven't really caught up yet.

“Are you still a little pain in the ass?” Dean asks as a conversation-opener when they sit down next to each other.

Jo smiles at him. “The one thing you can count on,” she tells him.

“Not much else you can count on these days.”

“Not even time.” She reaches out towards one of the six packs near the fire and takes one beer for herself, handing the other one to Dean. “Never thought I'd ever see you again, not to mention drink with you.”

“And in a place like this, dude,” he agrees. “Last time we met we were drinking milk.”

“Ew. Milk is gross. _You_ were drinking milk because you're a gross person. Even as a child.”

“The whole block knew you had a crush on me,” Dean says jokingly and Jo punches him in the shoulder.

They're no longer the people they were back then – they knew each other as kids, and you grow and evolve too much to really consider yourself friends when you try to catch up after over a decade. Dean would have to start with, _so uh, what happened after kindergarten?_ Still, it feels easy. It's part of knowing that they used to be inseparable – there's an unspoken connection that could be sparked into more. Talking to Jo is easy, making fun of her is easy.

“I've learned my lesson since then,” she grumbles, “Besides, no one's crush on you is bigger than _yours_.”

“Joanna Beth, you hurt me.”

“Don't forget I have a knife collection. Just in case you want to call me that ever again.”

They laugh, and Dean shakes his head at himself but he goes for it; he takes a sip of his beer and says, “So, what happened after kindergarten? Update me.”

And so she does. Their voices get lost in the voices of the others – all of them are talking and discussing, all of them carefully avoiding the one thing they should be talking about.

Their apathy, because that's all there is now, lasts until Aaron suggests board games or charades later into the night when the already-pitiful fire starts to die out – being a creative bunch, they settle on a combination of the two.

They settle on some obscure board game that needs supplies that Jo brings up (she calls it Teambam and they're not completely sure she didn't actually invent it herself – they're not completely sure what the rules are or if there are any, either) and charades after a minute or two of discussion. While Kevin gets up to go get some supplies (legitimately asking permission to go through everyone's cabin, even Claire's), Victor and Dean get up to bring out a table and set it up.

(Because they're adults and why should they play games _inside_ when they can stay outside. Right?)

Since they've all been standing up and milling around, their original seats are forgotten and everyone sits down at random. Dean is lucky enough to squeeze himself between Bela and Jo, but unlucky enough that Cas sits right across from them.

Before he realizes, he's staring at him – Castiel is still in a conversation with Claire, they're currently talking about wild horses as far as Dean can hear – which, what the hell – and – fuck. Here we go again.

It's like he's seeing Cas in profile for the first time again – the line of his neck, the stubble. The few sparks that are still jumping out from the fire, the few flames that remain, look a lot like sunset on Cas' face, even in the middle of the night. It is awful. _You are strangers, you are opposites_ , Dean keeps telling himself, but to no avail. No matter what he tries to kid himself with, it always comes down to this: I want to kiss that neck, I want to touch that face, I want to devour those lips. I wasted my chance. Second chances don't exist.

Dean is getting far too caught up in Cas' features when Kevin approaches, marching back to the fire, a volleyball covered in sand in one arm and a tiny object Dean can't quite make out from this angle in the other.

“Guys,” Kevin says, breathing heavily, obviously having run some distance. “I found this.”

He places the object on the table near the fire gently despite his rush and they all get up lean over it like overeager animals when they're offered food. It's a wrist watch with a brown leather strap, vintage-looking – the glass is a little dirty and the bands around it are falling off. They don't even have to be silent – though they are – to hear it ticking.

“Where did you find this?” Ellen asks, breathless as well.

Kevin points like a schoolkid. “Claire's room.”


	7. vii.

There are two things that happen after this that are both surprising – and yet not so much.

The first one is that they decide to sleep on it. They're so weary from being stuck in the same day yet watching sunrises and sunsets as if it were just their minds playing tricks on them – of course they wanted to sleep on it.

They're a lot less cheerful than usual, even though the watch ticking away steadily should mean hope. They forget about the board game and about charades – they retreat to their cabins, leaving the fire to spark out completely and abandoning the table by its side. The time still isn't moving, so they'll just move it inside on yet another continuation of this endless, endless day.

Cas gets to their cabin first – Dean sees the top of his head, messy as always, as he walks by the cabins with Jo.

They hug a little, before Jo disappears in her cabin – as if they were only just reunited. It's funny, Dean feels jealous for a split second. Jo has the cabin to herself, and for the first time, Dean wishes he had that luxury. As pathetic as it is (but then again, we've established that that's what Dean is a long time ago), he still doesn't know how to face Cas.

They do exchange a too-long look when Dean gets to their cabin. It's as if they were on the verge of talking, except then Dean looks away and there's an audible sigh from Cas' side.

“I'm going to head to the showers,” Cas says quietly as Dean sits down on his bed.

They should be talking about the watch. They should be talking about Claire, they should be talking about them, about their families, like they did that night when Dean woke up to Cas screaming. They should be talking about the kiss and how much Dean regrets pulling away.

“Yeah, okay,” he says instead.

There's another second of reluctant silence where Cas hovers by the door, as if waiting for more, but Dean is stuck. He is so incredibly, impossibly stuck.

They don't talk, aside from wishing each other goodnight after the showers. _Let's sleep on it_ , Dean thinks again.

 

 

///

 

 

In the morning, they all still feel like they need another night to sleep on it again. The thing is, they don't know what it means.

That day, they search the premises for the third or fourth time – Dean has a feeling that ever since the clocks stopped ticking, someone took the time to search them every single day. He probably would have seen Victor walking around in the night, unable to sleep trying to figure out what happened; Jo, waking up from another nightmare and doing the same.

They do it again anyway.

What are you looking for, the wind that picks up early in the morning seems to ask them. Except none of them knows. They look for more graffiti (which makes Dean even more uneasy about his Cas-dream with the big GET IN sign), they look for some kind of sign of a breaking, deep down they know they're looking for a grave. They come back empty-handed, which is not surprising at all, and they're desperate and confused.

“Is it Claire?” Jo asks, when it's just her, Dean and Bela searching behind the campers’ cabins and the girl in question is nowhere to be seen. “Is she a ghost?”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Bela answers, but she looks around as if she was looking for a silvery entity levitating a few feet above the ground, ready to attack them and drag them into the afterlife. She pulls her arms around her, hugging herself as if it was cold even though it's nearing noon and the temperature is still climbing.

“I dunno,” Dean says, kicking at rocks and only semi-looking around for any kind of… weirdness. “She might be.”

“I mean,” Jo says, sitting down on the grass, a few feet away from the cabins and looking up at them, “The clocks and all that – it happened just one day after she got here.”

Bela seems to waver but then she decides to get her black jeans dirty and she sits down next to Jo. She sighs and runs her fingers through her hazel-brown hair. “But ghosts aren't real.”

Dean remains standing. “I didn't think getting stuck in time was real.”

“But here we are,” Jo agrees. She plays with the grass, yanking at a dry patch of it and rolling it between her fingers.

Temporarily, they fall silent. It feels urgent – the fact that they're actually searching and finally talking about it again. There's a sense of unease in the air. They don't talk, but all of them are busy contemplating something of their own – Dean, whether there's a way out of here, Jo, probably thinking that this is just a big series of unlikely events, and Bela, most likely trying to figure out if she can trust her own senses, her own eyes. If this is at all real.

She must come to the conclusion that it _is_ real, because she looks down, and very quietly, she says, “Crazy idea, then. What if one of us is a ghost?”

“What?” Jo asks, the question seemingly stirring her from her quiet moment. Dean raises his eyebrows.

“Say,” Bela starts carefully, pulling her skinny legs up to her chest and hooking her elbows over them, “Say that one of us died on our way here, somewhere in the area. Car accident, I don't know. What if that's the case?”

“I swear I'm not a ghost,” Dean says quickly. He was the first one to notice the no-signal sign, after all, he was the one to drive them into town and see it frozen, and he says this out loud to himself as much as the others.

It terrifies him, that it could be one of them. Victor, who never seems to sleep; Bela, who seems so cold because she's so busy hiding how scared she actually is; Charlie, who would get them stuck here because she cared about the camp too much. Every single one of them could be the source – except the idea doesn't feel right.

“Like you'd confess to being a ghost if you _were_ a ghost,” Jo tells him jokingly.

Bela laughs – a small sound at the back of his throat, but her shoulders relax a little. “It was a ridiculous idea, sorry.”

“There's something about Claire, though,” Jo says, trailing off.

Dean thinks about her – a little frightened girl. She came alive when she had the space to be herself – or when she had the opportunity to talk about her mother. There was something ethereal about her, though – something that Dean sensed the second he first walked up to her. And as Jo says it, he suddenly knows that he wasn't the only one; they all felt it. The aura, the something that hangs around her.

“It's probably just an accident that it's her watch that's still ticking.”

“Accidents don't just happen… accidentally,” Dean says with the wave of his arm.

But once again, also unsurprisingly, they don't figure out anything – because there's nothing to figure out.

They spend most of the rest of their day wandering around, feeling much like ghosts themselves, while Claire hangs back as if afraid to leave the safety of her cabin and the cafeteria. She watches them with worried eyes as if she thought they had gone insane, biting down on her lip nervously and barely uttering a word. She refused to talk to them about the watch, of course, which didn't make the situation easier for her, but still. They wouldn't have turned her away – God knows if she could even explain it anyway. She's most likely as clueless as they are, despite what they might think or say about her in hushed voices.

Eventually, the second thing that happens and that is surprising and not so surprising at the same time is that they decide to venture into the town to try and figure out more – Charlie says she spotted a library when they were passing through the last time.

Kevin, Aaron and Charlie straight out refuse to go. Aaron and Kevin because the story of the frozen town alone freaked them out badly and they see it as death and destruction, a post-apocalyptic scenario straight out of a movie, and Charlie because she knows very well that she wouldn't handle the town well.

Ellen doesn't volunteer either, which discourages Jo – because if her mom's freaked out by something, there's a good chance it would freak out Jo too, even though she likes to play the toughest girl in tough town. Bela doesn't even pretend to be willing to venture out of the camp, and even though Victor volunteers, they stop him – if anything happens, they'll need him there.

Right, yeah. So that leaves who? Exactly.

Dean and Cas.

“He can pick a lock.” Jo points an accusing finger at Dean, so that's decided. No one asks him if he wants to go, even though he's got as much reason to be scared as Charlie – his hands still feel tainted from where he touched that man, trying to stir him into life. He doesn't want to go, but he shuts up about it.

“He's good at research,” Charlie blames Cas as if looking for the weakest link, and so that's decided as well. They barely look at each other – what with Dean's avoiding (no, let's be honest, it's been ignoring at its best), it's not all that weird.

For the first time in his life, Dean hates that the Impala doesn't have two proper seats for two proper passengers as they squeeze themselves in – just a bench. It feels like they're a couple leaving after a family dinner gone wrong – everyone is huddled together in the parking lot, watching as Dean drives out and onto the road.

“Smells like leather,” Castiel comments dryly when he finds a comfortable spot, very noticeably as far away from Dean as possible. It doesn't require a response.

They don't even pretend to keep up any kind of small talk – they both know they're here to get to the town, find the library, and get inside. Dean knows how to pick a lock alright – and if Cas is any good at digging through archives and other stuff, they should be golden. Back in a couple of hours, and not trapped in such a tiny space together.

After a while, when they're about halfway through their drive to the town and the road, asphalt now, stretches out in front of them, Castiel speaks again. “I'm sorry if I made things difficult for you. I didn't mean to.”

Dean doesn't dare look to the side, just in case Cas is watching him. “No, dude, if anything – it was me that messed up, I'm sorry.”

Castiel snickers. “You _have_ been pretty awful the past two days.”

Dean is not used to this. Sam has always given him shit and called him out if he was being an asshole, but usually, that was pre-apologizing. Post-apologizing usually meant moving on and not mentioning it again, but it seems completely normal to Cas to acknowledge that Dean fucked up and it's a good thing that he's decided to apologize.

(It's frustrating, in a way, because Dean _doesn't_ want to apologize. Just like when the kiss almost happened, he pretty much just wants to run away. Yes, even from this moving car.)

“Yeah, well, sorry,” he mutters through gritted teeth.

“I'm not blaming you,” Cas tells him, genuine. “That's why I apologized, too. I made things awkward and I'm sorry. I messed up a good thing.”

“You didn't,” Dean says right away, finally looking to the side. He so desperately wants to say, _it was me that messed up a thing that could have been great_ , and he so desperately wants to stop the car and let the whole town go to hell; just let him lean over and kiss Castiel, properly on the mouth, let him breathe into it, let him take air from it, let him live in it. Dean is so desperate to get lost in this feeling that keeps tugging on his heartstrings – but he can't. Not now. He doesn't know why.

Because the road before them makes him think of a road trip that ends on the last day of summer. Because the camp feels surreal. Because all of it does. Because… Because.

A part of him tells him that it's because letting Cas in in that way would make him a big part of his life – and he's just lost that, double lost that, hasn't he? Sam moving away, and Dean’s job poofing away from underneath him. He's still falling, that fall is still happening, and even though it doesn't have anything to do with the way he's falling for Castiel, they do interconnect at some point, don't they?

Or yeah, that's what he tells himself.

“I just don't know what to do,” he hears himself say without any prompting whatsoever. His fingers grip the wheel – he knows Cas is looking at him. “I just dunno.”

“It was just a kiss,” Cas says a little too shyly.

“It's never just a kiss,” Dean argues, his eyes glued to the road in front of them again. “It's also the kiss after that and what it means and all that stuff.”

“Sometimes kissing is just kissing,” Castiel repeats slowly, “but I'll admit I did have that next kiss and what it means in mind as well. Should I apologize again?”

Dean can tell by the raise in Castiel's voice that this is an actual argument – except he doesn't know how to do those. Perhaps he should have seen it coming – stuck in a car and wanting to kiss someone, you'll ether act on it or start an argument. Guess which one Dean's going with.

“No, stop apologizing,” Dean says in a harsher tone than he'd intended. “You didn't do anything wrong. I'm just tellin' you that even though I wanted that kiss, it's not just _that_ kiss. Do you get what I'm saying?”

“Yes, Dean, I get what you're saying,” Castiel says impatiently, “but I don't understand. What about any possible other kiss would be so bad?”

“I don't know!” Dean exclaims. His frustration boils hot in his veins and it's not fair – he's frustrated because they're stuck in time, because of his own indecisiveness and incapability to admit to being vulnerable. “I don't know if I'm ready for any other kisses after the first one, I just don't know if you'd be good for me, I don't know anything.”

There's a short silence. And then, “You know, I'm not sure you'd be good for me, either.”

 

 

///

 

 

They get to the library in a stunned silence. It takes a couple of minutes before Dean locates the old building, despite Charlie’s instructions – it's not as big as he's used to from big cities.

It turns out that there's no need to pick a lock – and it turns out that their visit won't be very pleasant. The library doors are wide open, with a few leaves and some dirt on the ground the wind must have blown inside, and they're not alone. The librarian – a young girl with strawberry blonde hair who probably worked part-time here during the summer – is frozen in her spot, an older lady with a couple of books in front of them on the table frozen in front of her. There are not a lot of rows, but that makes it even creepier – it's a small space and there are two more people frozen in the midst of picking up their next favorite book.

It makes Dean think of how they met – Cas lounging at the reception, reading – and it makes him look at Cas _now_.

He seems perplexed, but if he's terrified, he's hiding it well. It makes Dean want to reach out to him and at least hold his hand to offer comfort – and to seek comfort for himself – nonetheless. After their exchange in the car, though, he doesn't dare.

Without a word, Castiel leaves Dean standing near the librarian's desk and with a deep inhale, he disappears towards the back of the room, where the old computer is. The electricity works fine here as well, though it takes a moment for the computer to boot up.

All the while, Dean wishes he could make himself say something. At first, he watches Cas – as he sits, trying his best not to look at the frozen people around them, but then it starts hurting and he has to look away. His eyes glide over the people – their seemingly warm skin, he'd still believe they were alive and awake if he didn't know how stone-like they were to the touch. How unmoving.

He grows fidgety, standing there like a complete idiot while Castiel works the computer, clicking through archives. That click-click-click of the old dusty mouse is the only sound that fills the room. Oh, how he wishes he could say something – but he doesn't know how. They are both in pain, he guesses, though he feels like his is much more selfish and unreasonable. And yet – he's hurting and it's difficult to say sorry when you don't have the words _and_ you're controlled by your own pain. It's the coward's truth.

He doesn't even dare walk up to Cas and look over his shoulder, offer to help.

“There's nothing,” Cas announces eventually and Dean startles, having been going through those books laid on the table, only a few feet away from the librarian and the lady. He's shivering a little.

“There's nothing?” he repeats dumbly.

Castiel looks up at him from behind the computer as he turns the screen off. “No ghosts, no other weird incidents, no missing people, nothing. The most exciting thing in the archives is that a supposed freak show came through town decades ago. That's it.”

“Did you check everything?” Dean asks, approaching Cas even though he knows the computer is off – the hum of the old machine has faded.

Castiel looks away. “Yes, I checked everything. Perhaps I'm not that good at this, either.”

“Was that necessary?” Dean asks, frowning, before he can think about it twice.

“I don't know, was it?” Castiel fires back, getting up from the chair and walking past Dean again, as if he wasn't even there. Except their shoulders brush and Dean hasn't felt so _present_ since the last time they touch, so _here_ , alive.

No. No, it wasn't necessary. The comment, that is – Dean shouldn't have said it, back in the car.

It's a wonder, though, to see Cas upset – as light and soft as his face usually looks, the hurt is now written into it, lining his wrinkles and contouring his frame.

In the car, the air seems even heavier and stuffier than it did on their way here – perhaps because the library turned out to be such a bust.

Never in his life has Dean been more desperate to talk to his brother. Not just because of the frozen time thing – though that's a big one, and Sam being the master researcher that he is, he'd probably be able to help them – but because of Cas, too. Because, how does one come back from this? Dean knows that what he said was hurtful and stupid, but he doesn't know how to take it back – mostly because he's still scared.

Technically speaking, Sam has had much more success with his relationships than Dean and it would be good to get to ask, _so hey, how did you decide that something was worth it?_ Even though Sam probably went through that years ago.

Dean only knows a few things: how to hook up and have fun, how to maintain a sort of relationship for a few weeks before it falls apart, and how to hurt someone. Perhaps how to get drunk at a random bar with a couple of his friends could be on the list as well, but that's about it.

This is different. He keeps telling himself that Cas is still a stranger, or that he is the victim of circumstance – one is likely to do stupid shit when one is stuck in time. Right?

It's not that, though, is it? It's not. Cas plunges in headfirst if it feels right, and God, Dean doesn't know how to do that – except it feels right, goddamn, it feels right and he fucked it up.

They drive in silence with nothing to show for their trip – except for more sightings of creepily frozen people, and Dean hasn't felt this down – well, since Sam left. The rainclouds that start to stretch across the skyline only add a weird gloomy feeling that Dean doesn't like.

It doesn't get much better once they get back – Cas basically jumps out of the car as if something stung him in the ass and very briefly, he tells Charlie they didn't find anything. Then he marches off and into the woods, as if that was safe in any way at all.

“What's up with him?” Charlie asks with a raised eyebrow when Dean gets out of the car and _slams_ the door closed. “What's up with _you_?”

“Nothing,” Dean says, “We just didn't find anything. We don't know what the fuck is going on. Fuck.”

He leans against his car and runs his fingers through his hair, trying to find words he doesn't have while Cas' silhouette disappears into the trees. Charlie approaches him and takes his forearm gently, pulling it away from his face so she can look at him.

“You alright in there?” she asks him in such a best-friend voice it makes him want to curl up and cry.

“I fucked up big time,” he whispers so no one else can hear. “We had a fight in the car and I said some pretty shitty things to him.”

“Well, I warned him you didn't know how to use words, so he shouldn't be surprised,” Charlie jokes, but when she sees he doesn't react to it, her features relax and she grows more serious. “Listen, you're too damn adorable to be resisted. Just go after him and explain yourself.”

“Don't insult me,” Dean says quietly but he gives her a half-smile. He may not believe her, but it's the confidence boost he needed.

Charlie is right, because – hell, if Dean regrets saying those things this much, he really should go after Cas. What's so wrong with plunging into stuff headfirst? He'll probably get hurt, yeah, but it's not like he could protect himself from that if he stayed away from everyone and everything. Besides, it's quite possible that staying away from something you want oh-so-much might hurt even more. The pain is not worth it.

People are messy, and Dean is perfect proof of that. There's a string that keeps pulling him towards Cas, and there's a string of a different color doing its best to keep them apart. Both strings are probably nerve endings that interconnect in Dean's brain, and it's up to him to tidy the mess up and decide. Which is the difficult part. Which string do you cut off and which do you follow?

He wants Cas – but he doesn't want to feel vulnerable. He likes Cas – but he feels like he shouldn't because they've only known each other for a few days. He wants to try it – but he's worried it's just an infatuation that will go away. He wants and he doesn't.

People are messy and people are not _full_ of contradictions, they _are_ contradictions. Tight knots that can't untangle themselves. Not on their own. Sometimes that means friendship. Sometimes it means running into the woods to catch up with the boy you like.

Once the decision is made, it's almost easy to follow.

There's only the half-invisible path that leads to the lake, and Dean knows that Cas is smart and wouldn't stray from it. He follows it, walking quickly as thunderclouds gather above the trees, but he doesn't catch up with him for a good long while – he's almost starting to believe that Cas _did_ step off the path after all. They're only a few more minutes away from the lake when Dean finally spots Cas' soft blue shirt and the contrast of his dark hair.

“Hey,” Dean calls, but it's quiet, too quiet. “Hey!” he tries again and this time, his voice doesn't fail him, so at least there's that.

Castiel turns around and it makes Dean think back to his dream with such clarity he almost stumbles.

“It's about to start raining,” Dean says, pointing up at the rainclouds. “We're near the lake and if there's a storm – we should head back.” What the fuck is he _talking_ about?

Castiel seems about as surprised as Dean – rightfully so. “Is that what you came here to tell me?” he asks. He doesn't sound angry or upset, not really – there's a layer of it in his voice, but most of it is gentle curiosity and a spark of hope that makes Dean believe they could be okay.

“So you may not be good for me,” Dean says. They're still a few feet apart, and Dean can glimpse a blue patch or two of the lake behind Cas' shoulder – the beginnings of the clearing, a small patch of sky. “But fuck, how am I supposed to know you wouldn't be the best thing? I'm – okay,” Dean says, licking his lips in contempt and trying his hardest not to break eye contact even though he feels embarrassed. “I'm scared as fuck, Cas. I lost my brother to California, I lost my job. I feel like I've got nothing. Then you come along and within two days I wouldn't mind moving in with you. _Lesbians_ do that.”

Castiel laughs. “That's a misconception. I've done that at least twice.”

“See, I don't think that's funny.”

Cas' face grows serious and he nods. He steps up, both literally and figuratively, and he looks up at Dean. “I'm not going to baby you. The decision is up to you. I don't think there's anything wrong with going for it and I damn well like you a lot, so even though the offer won't stand forever, I am here right now and I do want you.”

“You can't say shit like that,” Dean murmurs and as he looks down, not able to keep up with the eye contact anymore, a raindrop lands on the back of his neck. He slaps at it idly. “You just can't.”

“I am so sorry you're scared,” Cas says as more raindrops descend on them. “This whole thing might disappear when time starts moving again. But I'm willing to risk it. You think I'm not scared? I've spent half of my life terrified out of my skull. The best way to deal with that is to close your eyes and just do it. Jump, kiss, live, I don't know. What else is there?”

The rain starts tap-tapping on the trees' leaves and wetting their clothes, and Dean can just about hear the faint drop-drop of them on the surface of the lake. It's dark around them – between the trees, and underneath the rainclouds, but that's the least scary part. “Well, with your eyes closed, you could die.”

“What else is there?” Cas asks again.

It's difficult to believe that anything could be as easy as that – difficult to believe that the world with parents like Claire's and Cas', and distance and complications, could offer something like this. Something Dean can actually grab with his fingers. Someone. The world seems too cruel to have a Cas, and yet.

Jump. Kiss. Live. I don't know.

“I am so sorry for everything I said in the car, if you could forget that, it was so stupid – I – ”

Castiel closes his eyes and plunges headfirst into it. Jump kiss live I don't know.

His lips hit Dean's and his hands grip Dean's and Dean doesn't even think about pulling away or breaking it. He is tired of running – it's time to take chances.

Their kiss is feverish and wet – rain falls down in sheets but, as everyone knows, there's always a rainbow after it rains, so it can't be all bad.

Dean's mouth slides down Cas' and he laughs. It tastes exactly like his swim in the lake felt – like freedom. It bubbles up in him and even though he can't hear his own giddy thoughts over the increasing rain, the rain that makes their skin slip and their mouths as well, he feels weightless. He pulls away then, and he is mesmerized – raindrops have stuck to Cas' face, and now Dean runs his finger across them. Cas' cheekbones, his cheeks, his jaw, his eyelids, his forehead, he traces the lines tenderly. The upset is gone – it looks and feels soft and light.

“I'm so happy,” Dean whispers but the rain has turned violent and it silences his words.

“What?” Castiel shouts and he laughs, his hands clutching the front of Dean's shirt as if refusing to let him go.

“I'm so happy!” Dean repeats, louder now, and he grabs Cas' hand. “Let's go for a swim!”

“Are you insane?” Cas asks, but he just keeps on laughing and he lets Dean lead him to the lake – even exclaims an inaudible _whoa_ when he sees the beauty.

They strip down to their boxers even though their clothes are all wet from the rain anyway, and Dean is the first one to jump in. The water is colder than he remembers it, but within seconds, Cas catches up with him and wraps his legs around Dean's waist, throws his arms around his neck. And Dean holds him. When you're falling it doesn't mean you're only counting on someone to catch you – it means you're signing up to look out and catch the one falling for you.

The strange thing is that they never stop smiling – they kiss, all frantic movements and tongue, the rain around them relentless, hitting their heads with consistency, wrinkling the water around them in constant ripples. They grip at each other and rub each other's arms when the water grows colder and goosebumps start to show, and they kiss and they kiss and they kiss.

There is nothing but Cas' mouth for a long time. It's as warm as his eyes – as welcoming, as loveable.

It's only been minutes and Dean can't even imagine a world where he wouldn't be able to grab this hand, touch this face, kiss this mouth.

Jump. Kiss. Live. You don't need to know how it ends.


	8. intermezzo

They walk out of the woods holding hands. They have been nudging each other, stopping to kiss and laugh the entire way back, and so it's taken them a while.

The tall trees protected them from any more rain, shielding them, but their clothes are still a little damp when they walk out of there – besides, when they do walk out, riding a high they won't come off for quite some time, it's not raining anymore.

But it's not _not_ raining, either. It's rather complicated, you see.

What they see when they walk out of the woods is like nothing they've ever seen before – or will see ever again, they're pretty sure. Dean's jaw drops.

The sky above the woods is crystal clear and there's not a single cloud tainting it. It looks like it never even rained, like they imagined those raindrops on their bodies, lips, skin. Around the camp, the trees bend under a wild wind that Dean and Cas can't feel at all from where they're standing, even though it's only a short distance. For them, just on the verge of the woods, there's no breeze, even. Just warm air enveloping them. And above the cabins, thunderclouds gather and there's lighting and thunder that Dean can see and hear. Right to the side, there's a big, big rainbow bridging over a part of the sky. It's literally all kinds of weather at the very same time, stretching out over their heads.

Impossible, like Aaron said.

“What the hell is going on?” Dean asks in a whisper.

“I've never seen anything like this,” Cas mumbles next to him, taking their joined hands and pointing them towards the sky. “That is not natural.”

“Let's ask the others,” Dean urges. He can see them gathering around the reception room, somewhere in between the sunny weather, the wind, the rainbow and the thunderstorm – in the eye of the hurricane. Dean is suddenly scared – it's one thing to be stuck in time, and it's another to be facing all kinds of weather, especially the dangerous kinds.

(And he's mad, too – it's too soon for the bubble of happiness to pop, but here they are.)

“Okay,” Cas agrees.

This is when Claire tells them all her story.

 

 

///

 

 

Claire did not run away from her religious parents who thought this was Bible camp and wanted her to undergo conversion therapy when they found out it wasn't. Claire has only ever been to Montana once in her life – because this is her state, this is where she was born, and she's been hanging around these woods for quite some time.

For years. Decades, to be precise.

She tells it like she would tell a fairytale, or like a fairytale that might once have been told to her when she was just a little kid. By her mother, perhaps, when words could still ease the road. She tells it like it's a made-up story, except it's the only story she ever knew to be true.

Once upon a time, there was a freak show. There were a lot of them at one point, actually, most of them scams to lure money out of bored people, but we're going to talk about a specific one, the one that had _Alistair's Den_ scribbled in a fancy writing on one of the caravans.

Back in the day, _Alistair's Den_ was famous for delivering actual real life freaks, not just actors, or people who could juggle knives, or those who had to pretend because they had no real talent. Alistair himself was born without any supernatural powers, but he _did_ have a talent – it was finding _others_ with talents. Various ones.

There were people who could swallow actual fire, people who could levitate, people with unbreakable skin. People like Claire's mom – she was a contortionist, one of a kind, who could fold herself into such tiny spaces she could be carried around in a suitcase. She had hair as fair as Claire's, and a smile just as kind.

Alistair didn't keep Claire's mom for her exceptional skills, though – she was one of his lesser attractions, and even though he treated people really horribly, he was extremely cruel to her – she was the part of his freak show that didn't pay much, as only drunken old men came to see her and threw her pennies. He only truly kept her for Claire. Claire was exceptional – she was above everyone else, above serpent charmers, above all of them.

You see, _Alistair's Den_ was one of a kind because the people caught in it couldn't run away. They were too poor, too dependent, or too scared. Claire's mom was, perhaps, all three. Some of them loved opium too much, but at least she was always clear-headed. She had a little kid who could make the sun shine brighter and she had to take care of her – so she decided to stay. No, decided is not the right word. She didn't see any other road to go down. Not one that wouldn't lead to starvation or, worse, selling herself – the one thing that truly terrified her.

The freak show was a world of its own – they heard news of the first world war, but it seemed very far away. They heard about Washington and New York, but thosewere about as real as Oz – they'd never seen them. Sometimes, the freaks didn't even feel like real people – they were the show, and the people who came to see them were the real ones. Not them. They were caught in something inexplicable, something that felt timeless.

So they traveled across Montana, and Claire's mom kept folding herself smaller and smaller. Soon enough, Claire's talent came forth – she couldn't fold herself up like her mother, no, but she could _literally_ make the sun shine brighter. Or she could make it rain. Or make it stop raining. Inside the tents, as well. No one could explain – all the freaks felt somehow connected to nature, but none of them defied it. Little Claire conquered storms at the age of three.

Perhaps she was born out of her mother's desire to be free, to have some kind of control.

Alistair wasn't meant to find out, but he did.

This next bit will not come as a surprise.

Claire's mom was weak – she let it happen. Not Alistair finding out, no, we can't blame her for that. But once he found out, she let him – she let him take Claire, let him make an attraction out of her, let him use her. You couldn't upset little Claire – if you did upset her, she couldn't control her powers, the weather turned ugly, and whoever was interested in the freak show lost interest – so her mom told herself, _at least he won't profit from treating her badly_. They didn't want to get rained on. So little Claire actually got special treatment – that did work out well.

The rest didn't. The rest went horribly.

This was all the way back when, when your lungs would bleed and there was no cure, where you would cough and it meant death.

Claire's mother started coughing one shiny August day when they were in central Montana. It meant death, and it was a slow and pitiful one. It was a gloomy October day when she finally passed away.

This was all the way back when, when you had to dig your own grave or otherwise you wouldn't have a place to rest (maybe in peace, no guarantees).

Claire's mother did not dig her own grave – at least not literally. Claire didn't see it, but Alistair left Claire's mother lying by the side of the road, nothing but food for the wolves. Nothing but future soil for flowers to grow on. How could she ever find peace? How could Claire?

She did not. She did not find peace.

Little Claire was, up until that point, caught in her own world. She didn't understand their situation – how could she, she was just a child. She saw Alistair and thought _food_. She thought _shelter_. She might have hated the road – oh, she did – but she never understood what the road meant. With her mother to cradle her in her arms, those arms that could fold and reach, those arms that were so soft and skinny, Claire was protected.

Not now. Not anymore. Her grief put a stop to making the sun shine, prevented her from stopping the rain. The rain understood – its drops were tears. She had no reason to stop it. And Alistair got upset. Special treatment was over.

Claire's powers got out of control – there was rain and thunder at all times, even inside. The caravans' wheels got stuck in the mud on a daily basis and their food rotted quickly. Claire would have stopped it now, maybe, if she knew how – except she couldn't, she didn't remember. The knowledge of her powers died by the side of the road with her mother.

People stopped coming to _Alistair's Den_ , obviously valuing their hairdos more than his freaks. Besides, there wasn't even a contortionist to look at anymore.

Then something extraordinary happened – Alistair, who had long since stopped treating Claire well, hoping to _force_ the sun out of her if he couldn't ask for it nicely, touched her in an attempt to shake her out of it. But Claire was lost without her mother – her mother who read her stories, her mother who _was_ the sun to Claire, and without her, there could be no other – and suddenly, when Alistair's hand gripped her shoulder, she saw.

She saw how rotten Alistair was – worse than their food could ever be. She saw how ugly he was on the inside. Her power stretched and grew – it reached through Alistair and ran through him, and reported back to her. She saw the horrors that lived in his head, she saw his past and she saw his future, and she shrieked. She shrieked and she ran.

The only one to ever run away. The only freak whose powers went beyond. And she ran.

You could ask Claire, because she was still just a child when it happened – at fifteen you were either a child or a mother then, and Claire didn't even _have_ a mother, of course she was a child. Well, you could ask her, how did you run so far? But she doesn't know. She ran and ran and ran, past corpses left by the side of the road, past wild animals, through flowers. She got lost in the Montana wilderness with nowhere to go.

It is quite possible, Claire says, telling them this fairytale, that she died while she was running. She doesn't know, she doesn't even know.

All she knows is that she's looking, that perhaps she's been cursed. She's looking for her mother. The last time she saw her, Claire tells them, her mother had red roses blossoming around her mouth, and it looked beautiful. Claire didn't understand how it could have been bad, but it must have been.

She's still running, god, has she ever stopped? Running across these woods, looking, looking. Sometimes she touches someone or lets herself be touched, and sees inside people. She says that some have roses around their mouths. She says that some are kind but also on the run. She says that some are as rotten as Alistair once was.

Poor little Claire, she says about herself in the third person, she is so desperate to find someone to help her.

 

 

///

 

 

This is when Charlie's phone rings.


	9. viii.

It is inexplicably creepy to hear ABBA's Dancing Queen in this very moment, and they all startle badly. Charlie looks at her phone like it's Satan's work and she almost drops it, but then she looks at the screen and tries to breathe.

They're all staring at her like she's got the key to life and space and the meaning of life (other than 42) in her hands.

“Billie. It says Billie,” she says and she laughs. “I don't know any Billie. Who the fuck is Billie. There's not a single Billie saved in my contacts.”

“Pick it up,” Victor says, but considering the way he sounds, he probably wouldn't pick it up if it was his phone. Like, not in a million years.

“I know a Billie,” Claire says dreamily. While she was speaking before, somehow she completely lost the normal teenager look – her hair seems wavy and despite her young features, she seems very, very old. Her clothes seem to hang on her and it's not just because they're Charlie's and a size bigger. It's like they're all finally seeing what's _behind_ , not just what she's deciding to show them.

Charlie tries to hand the phone to her, and it takes her a second to look at Claire like she is Claire, and not a monster. None of them really thought that _this_ was their ghost. “You pick it up, then.”

But Claire looks at Charlie with such begging eyes that there is no questioning and no forcing. This was the second story Claire has told them, and each was heartbreaking. This second one would have been hard to believe if their watches and phones hadn't stopped working ages before, but like this? Yeah, believable. Very real.

Dean can't help but notice that Charlie's hands are shaking a little as she looks back at the phone. Truth is, they're all kind of existing out of themselves right now. Dean, for one, doesn't feel real. He feels like a ghost, just like Claire. His body feels empty and light, devoid of feeling, incapable of questioning.

Charlie finally swipes right and holds the phone up to her ear.

What happens next is about as ridiculous looking as the ABBA sounded. It reminds Dean of a scene in the Princess Diaries, which he wouldn't admit to ever watching once, let alone ten times, where the Queen of Genovia calls the school headmaster.

For a second, Charlie goes very tense and all she says is _mhm, mhm, mhm_ repeatedly.

Dean almost loses it, but Cas squeezes his hand and Dean manages to hold it together. It's just that the situation – the situation is too much and he doesn't know how to react, _what_ to react to.

“That was Billie,” Charlie announces when she hangs up.

This is Bela's chance to say _You don't say?_ again, except she doesn't take it. It probably doesn't even occur to her. They're all quiet, as if afraid to speak.

“What did she say?” Claire asks, worrying the sleeve of her borrowed hoodie with the fingers of one hand. The braid she had on the right side of her face is slowly coming loose, and locks of blonde hair are starting to fall into her face.

“She said that...” Charlie trails off, as if she couldn't believe what she was about to say. “She said that you found someone to take you to your mother. You can meet her in the woods, if that someone takes you. What does that mean?”

Claire smiles. Dean has only ever seen her smile like this once before, when she sat in the cafeteria and played her food and Dean and Cas sat there like witnesses as she talked about her mother and how beautiful and kind she was. She must have been real all along, then, a real girl with a real genuine smile, not just a ghost of one. That's good. That's insanely good to know.

“I've found you,” she says, and she doesn't just look at Charlie, she looks at all of them. “I've found all of you. You are so kind and you want to _help_ , and I've found you. Will you take me to her?”

“We will,” Bela says immediately, because somehow, even though Dean would have guessed that she was the most realistic and the most cynical out of all of them, she is actually the one to trust Claire right away.

Maybe it's the estranged parents and the need to find your way back to them, maybe it's that Claire managed to get to all of them and connect to all of them in a significant way, but whatever the reason, Bela steps up first.

They all follow her lead.

Dean thinks – no, he's pretty sure – that they're all scared. At the same time, he doesn't think any of them fully realize that they're dealing with a supernatural creature. It's a mix of both that drives them on and makes them want to run away at the same time.

He also realizes that he's been holding hands with Cas this whole time, since leaving the lake up to Claire's story, up until now as they re-enter the woods with her. It fills him with pride and kills the dread. There is no point whatsoever in questioning any of this – not Claire, not what they have with Cas. Weird was when the time stopped, weird was when Dean dreamed about faceless creatures. Claire telling them the truth and Cas squeezing his hand are two of the most natural things Dean has ever experienced.

As they walk through the woods, to a place none of them knows, Dean also realizes that this looks _nothing_ like the woods he walked through with Cas. They are darker and the air seems to shimmer a little, as if saying, _notice me, I am not of this world_. It almost feels made up, this entire part of the forest – the trees look taller and older and there's a solid layer of old leaves lying underneath their feet. The plants look a vibrant green, as if you put a filter on them, and whatever light the trees let through, it glows and dances around them. If it weren't for Claire and her bright presence, Dean would have been terrified to go on. With each tree they pass, no path to lead them except for Claire's steps, the real world seems more and more like a fantasy.

They are entering the world of the dead, perhaps, or maybe the world of those caught in between. There must be so many of them – Claire is a speck of dust compared to the great scheme of all things. Yet she is so, so important.

 

 

 

 

 

“Why now?” Castiel asks very, very quietly.

“I don't know,” Dean whispers back.

“Why us?” Cas asks, but again, Dean doesn't have an answer.

None of them do. There is no real logic to any of this – the time stopping (how did that happen, anyway? Claire can only control weather, right?), the rainclouds side by side with the rainbow, all of this. There is no explanation and they are all too shocked to ask for one.

They all watch her, though. As if Claire might disappear if they look away.

She holds on to Bela's hand for the first couple of minutes of her journey, even though she's the one leading them. But then she lets go and she stops by all of them in turn, slowly making her way around all the counselors. Dean watches her speak quietly with Ellen and Charlie and Jo and Dorothy and Victor and Kevin until she makes her way towards them – Cas and him.

They've been quiet all this time, ever since their pointless exchange, and it doesn't change as Claire's step falls in with theirs. She is the first one to speak, easily stepping between them and untangling their hands – she holds Dean's left and Cas' right, as if she was their child.

“I'm sorry about the scary dreams,” she says quietly, her pinky hooking over Dean's.

“That was you,” Castiel breathes out, realization hitting both of them at the same time. Of course it was her. Lingering around them even the first night, just not making herself seen, watching them. Yet, it is not an unsettling thought.

Claire nods. “You both needed someone,” she says. “Have you found your someone?”

She's stopped speaking like the girl she's been these past few days, Dean realizes. The further they step into the woods, the more ethereal she becomes. Her hair seems white instead of blonde, wavy and loose now, and her pinky is ice-cold.

“Yes,” Dean hears himself answer, and it is the truth.

“Yes,” Castiel echoes. Is this temporary? Perhaps. But isn't everything?

“I love you,” Claire says with a smile, and it's hard to tell if she's sharing her feelings with them or whispering their next line, for some time in the future. Both make Dean smile. “I'm sorry about getting you stuck here.”

She's frowning when Dean looks to the side at her, as if she doesn't know how to explain it either. “It has been so long since I met anyone new. Things have changed. I've done things…”

“Do you mean the town, and time freezing?” Castiel inquires because he will always be the braver one.

Claire's hand slips into Dean's fully now, and even though it's as cold as marble, Dean doesn't pull away. “I'm not quite sure how I did that. But you're helping me. You're making the time move again.”

“We love you, kiddo,” Dean tells her, because even though she's essentially older than all of them combined, she's never stopped being a child. “You did what you had to.”

“You are sweeter than you realize, Dean,” she tells him with a dreamy sigh, and it sounds exactly like _you're okay for an old guy_. Or whatever it was she said in that cabin where everything was fresh linen and a couple of shared jokes. He doesn't know what to say. “There's Billie,” Claire says suddenly, her hand gone within an instant.

Dean looks in that direction – and there's a black woman standing a few feet ahead of them, where old trees stood just a few seconds ago, wearing a leather jacket and tight black pants, smiling.

“I see you've made friends, girl,” the woman says, and Dean feels cold. He doesn't know who Billie is and she doesn't seem human – there's a strangeness to her that is unsettling and scary, and Dean feels like he should be shielding himself from her somehow. They all seem to retreat – fold into themselves like Claire's mother used to. It feels as if they shouldn't be seeing this, at all.

“Reaper,” Claire answers, as if they were acquaintances, and it takes Dean a hot second before the word she uses registers with him. _Reaper_. Oh, holy shit. Holy shit. If it were anyone but Claire or someone out of this group of people, Dean would be _sprinting_ away. The reaper looks at him and smiles, as if she knew. “Where's my mother?”

“She's right here,” Billie tells her and even though she's so obviously _more_ than them, her voice sounds almost comforting. “My predecessor was cruel to you. You didn't deserve this.”

Claire isn't listening to her anymore, but it confirms something intangible for the others. Claire really doesn't register any of it – she's looking behind Billie, where a figure slowly materializes, wearing clothes like Dean has only ever seen in period dramas. She has hair the same color as Claire's and their smiles are the same as well, and there's something that hitches at the back of Dean's throat and makes it difficult to breathe.

The figure, Claire's mother, is obviously not real – not in the same way that Claire is. It's hard to tell if she walks, if she's not just one of those rainclouds pulled down to Earth.

They all watch, dumbstruck, as Claire and her mother embrace. They are no longer a part of this, and this time, Dean really doesn't feel all that real, or a part of the situation. Hollowed out again.

Claire hugs her mother tight to her, perhaps even tighter than her mother embraces her. They cling to each other and Dean can see their mouths moving, but he can't make out what they're saying.

For a brief second, he imagines. He imagines that this could be him and his parents. He would cling to his mother and nod to his father, and what could he possibly say to them after so long? He figures it out in seconds – even though they can't hear Claire and her mother, Dean knows they're saying _I love you_ , over and over again.

A slight wind picks up, but it's nothing compared to what Claire caused before – this is a light summer breeze that plays with Dean's hair and feels warm against his skin.

The wind toys with Claire's clothes and hair but she doesn't notice it. It seems to be caressing her, telling her goodbye, but she has her face buried in her mother's neck so tight she doesn't seem to notice anything. For Claire, her goodbye to them was when she told them she loved them. When she confessed. This is what happens _after_.

One second, they are mother and daughter finally reunited after decades of longing and grief, and the next they are liquid silver slowly melting into each other. Dean doesn't know what he was expecting, but it wasn't this. His shock is too great for an open mouth – but he's staring, wide-eyed. Somehow, this is not terrifying at all. Claire and her mother slowly become one, entities that knot themselves around each other. The light that they become as they melt into each other completely is blinding, but none of them can tear their eyes away.

They're seeing something that won't ever happen again, not with them around to see it, anyway. They're seeing something extraordinary and otherworldly and none of them can breathe through it. If this is what happens when you die – you become one with the people you love – Dean wouldn't mind.

He squeezes Cas' hands tighter, now that they're touching again and there's no Claire to stand between them, and he doesn't even realize that his eyes are filling up with tears, when suddenly Claire and her mother are gone in a small blast, specks of silver and nothing more. _It's the light_ , Dean tells himself, but to be honest, they are all on the verge of tears – what they just witnessed was beautiful and fulfilling to the point they can't quite take it.

“I'll see you all later,” Billie tells them with a smirk, and without a single sound, she's gone as well. They are left staring at an empty space.

“So that's it,” Jo says, but no one finds it in them to react.

So that's it.

 

 

///

 

 

When they retreat back towards the camp, they can literally feel the time moving around them. As if it really was just molecules that you could feel pressing against your skin with every second, wearing it down, creating wrinkles and pigmentation marks. It's strange when you exist out of time for so long and then suddenly it envelops you again – its relentless speed and constant movement forward shake them.

They don't speak a single word as they leave the woods. Dean knows, as he thinks everyone knows, that they won't ever be able to find this part of the forest again.

None of them dares to look back, even though it means leaving Claire and all that she was behind as well. So it must be.

The tightness in their chests slowly relaxes and eventually, Dean's phone vibrates in his pocket, the fact of it so startling he nearly jumps.

There's a missed call from Sam. God, _Sam_. Dean missed him.

“Can I call him back?” he asks Cas quietly, not wanting to interrupt the silence.

Castiel rubs Dean's knuckles and smiles at him, though the smile is weirdly melancholy. “I'll leave you to it,” he says, and his voice sounds warm.

Dean dials Sam's number right away, eager.

“Dude, Sammy, it's been so long,” he says instead of a hello. The need to say this, to act normal, is greater than anything else right now – otherwise his head would explode.

“We literally talked two days ago,” Sam laughs. It's such a normal sound to hear after what's just happened it shakes Dean a little. It makes everything else seem more real, too – the camp _really_ about to start this time, all of them having lived through so much, and the suddenly Claire-less world.

“About that...” Dean starts, but he's not sure how he'll finish. He'll probably tell him about Cas – he feels like Claire should only exist here and now. He'll tell Sam about her later.

 

 

///

 

 

Dean feels _quiet_ above all else when they get back to the cabins, without Claire. They all do – they barely talk, and they all retreat to their respective cabins, lost in thought.

The worst thing is that they are mourning. They saw the biggest miracle of their lives – they saw grief coming to an end, its actual physical form ending, yet it's difficult to let go. It's difficult because to them, Claire was a real girl. A been-to-Montana-before, had-a-map, my-parents-are-super-religious girl.

Despite what she told them, there was always that little bit of that girl left. At least they thought so, even though that girl was completely made up.

It's complicated, to feel this way, and they don't talk about it because they all know that ultimately, it is also horribly selfish.

Claire didn't belong to them for a single second. They did, however, belong to her. Ah, that feeling of being lost again.

Dean and Cas don't talk either as they make their way towards their cabin. As far as the two of them are concerned, there's no need to say anything else – there is something that they want to explore and so they will. Just not right now, with Claire and the image of her becoming just light instead of ashes to ashes, dust to dust still lingering with them.

“Are you okay?” Dean asks at one point when Cas sits down on the edge of his bed and sighs heavily, looking at the wooden wall opposite.

Castiel shrugs. “I'm not sure. Are you?”

Without asking, Dean crosses the small space of their cabin and sits down next to Cas. “As okay as I can be after something like that, I guess.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“I wonder, though, how much of the real actual Claire we got to see, you know,” Dean continues, and without really thinking about it, he takes Cas' hand and holds it, joins them and rests them between their legs.

“What do you mean?” Cas asks, turning his face so he can look at Dean. The light in the cabin is as dim as ever and it makes Cas' features look softer, kinder – younger, too. Dean understands why he would like him and why he wouldn't want to let it go – not in this lighting, not during the day.

“I mean...” Dean sighs, squeezing Cas' hand. There's a distinct feeling of _closeness_ and Dean likes it. “She knew what she needed to be like to get us to help her by touching Charlie, you, me… All of us. And I wonder, because she'd been lost in the woods for so long, if she even… you know… actually _remembered_ how to be a teenage girl, or got to be one when she was still, uh, alive isn't the right word, but you know what I mean, right?”

“I think I do,” Cas frowns. “So you're saying, you wonder if she made herself up, in a way, to get closer to us?”

“I guess so.”

“I think she did, just not completely. I think she based it on who she actually was. You remember how she spoke about how much she loved her mom? I think that was awfully real and true.”

“You're right,” Dean agrees immediately, his shoulders slouching. “I guess I forgot about that, she just seemed so unreal in the end. She literally turned into _light_.”

Castiel smiles at this and, making no big deal about it, he leans in and gives Dean's lips a quiet, quick peck. “It was beautiful, though.”

“Yeah,” Dean smiles, taking their joined hands and putting them on his thigh instead, to look at them. He lays Cas' there, fingers spread, and caresses it once or twice with his own, rough skin against soft. “I'm glad we helped her.”

“I'm glad I met you,” Castiel says to that, unexpectedly. “I'm glad we talked.”

It almost feels selfish to be talking about this with Claire's passing so fresh in their memory, but Dean can't see how this conversation could have been steered in a different direction. Claire helped them to get here, in a very distinct way, and it's all interconnected. The mention of the talk and consequentially their kiss, the hand holding, the subtle _everything_ they have going on right now, makes Dean blush a little.

“Me too,” he whispers, a little flushed just because of all the things he's come to feel in such a short amount of time.

Dean didn't think that would be possible.

Not just now, though maybe _especially_ now. He was not at a good place – he lost Sam to California and he felt like shutting off the whole world and tuning out for a little – or long – while. He agreed to come here and help because Charlie is a friend, and though he was excited to spend a part of his summer with a group of like-minded people, he genuinely was not expecting to connect with anyone. Not like this.

To be frank, he didn't even think he would make any _friends_.

(Because who would want to be friends with him, right?)

And then, of course, Cas comes along – throws his arms around Dean and smiles at him as if they've been friends forever – and the worst part was that talking to him and being around him felt exactly the same. Like they've known each other since childhood.

You will meet certain people throughout your life that will make everything feel like it could be alright. Oddly enough, there won't be a barrier. You'll meet them and suddenly you'll know that you can trust them, that you want to talk to them about the ugly things and the beautiful things, that you want them to stick around. The opposite of stranger danger – stranger love.

Existing so close to such a person, to Cas in Dean's case, for even a short amount of time (though being _stuck_ in it sure did feel like it was years, which just magnified the feeling) makes you fall for them, if you're naive and vulnerable enough.

Dean, the tough guy, was more vulnerable than he realized at the start of all of this. Of course he fell. The good thing about falling for someone, unlike falling in general, is that there's a good chance they'll catch you.

It's the way Cas looks at him, among other things, Dean decides now as they're stuck staring at each other, their hands still touching. They are somehow communicating without speaking, and of course that's enchanting.

“I -” Dean starts, but doesn't know exactly how to finish the sentence.

“Kiss me,” Cas helps him, and even though that's not what Dean wanted to say, it feels like the natural result of it anyway.

So he does.

Cas' lips are welcoming and warm, and without the initial rush they experienced near the lake and _in_ the lake, they feel soft and easy like honey. They seem to line against Dean's and press against them and before he realizes it, Dean is pressing back and moving closer to Cas.

Castiel's palms rests against Dean's neck, his thumb just brushing the line of his jaw. “This feels good,” he whispers before the kiss can get heated.

Perhaps it's a confirmation of sorts, that this feels good and right even with Claire being gone and not holding them in a separated time bubble, but it makes Dean giddy. He feels butterflies, ah, the myth right there in his belly, and he laughs.

“It really does,” he agrees and his hands grip Cas' shoulders before they slide down and grab onto his forearms, careful but tight. “I'm so – happy. Sad but happy.”

“Is that how people came up with sappy?” Cas murmurs, his mouth still just inches away from Dean's. They're both giggling now.

“You ask me, Cas. You're the smart one here.”

“Alongside you, might I mention.”

Red colors Dean's cheeks again. He doesn't think he's smart, he's never thought so. He doesn't want to argue about it, exactly, because maybe that would be a fight, but it's not the worst feeling in the world to be told this. It doesn't even make him feel guilty – like maybe he _should_ be smart if Cas thinks so – just – yeah, just happy.

“Me too, by the way,” Cas adds after a second. “I'm happy.”

Dean smiles, and even though Cas doesn't ask him to this time, he renews the kiss.

Soon enough, there are tongues and hands everywhere before they can stop themselves: Dean's cheeks are a rosy pink and he can feel his skin growing warmer, his body eager. When he pulls away and breaks the kiss, his lips feel puffy and _beautiful_.

“It's late,” Cas says after he swallows, briefly closing his eyes before looking at Dean again. “Big day tomorrow.”

Dean nods. They're back at half past six in the evening, the clock ticking this time. The camp starts in less than twenty-four hours. Claire won't be there. Claire is nothing but silver, happy light. This is something that has lodged itself in their chests forever and become a part of them.

Yet they don't move, and it would only take an inch for them to kiss again; God, when Dean nods, their foreheads almost bump. They're so close, casting long shadows on each other's faces, breathing in each other's space.

“Let's get going then,” Dean sighs and he kisses Cas' nose, sappily – sadly and happily, because he _can_ do that, but at the same time, he doesn't want that to be the only thing he does. But Cas is right – big day tomorrow, they should shower and get to bed later.

Dean gets up with another sigh, as heavy as his body feels. Claire feels so far away, but the feeling of melancholy lingers.

He crosses the cabin to grab his sleeping shirt and clean boxers, but he stops to get his bed ready first – he likes to get back from the showers and just slip in before having to bother with getting it ready then. He's already got the sheets and the blanket in his hands when he stops mid-movement and turns on his heels towards Cas.

He stares at him, for just a second. Cas is getting his own bed ready; Dean watches his muscles flex as he spreads the sheet out and lays it atop the bed, bending slightly. It's like the first days – everything back to normal. Suddenly so real. (It does make his ass look extremely good, even though Dean's doing all he can not to focus on that.) And he keeps staring and staring and he can't look away, because this is ridiculous.

They are… _something_.

In the middle of Montana, near one of its most gorgeous lakes if Dean says so – okay, maybe that’s thanks to its sentimental value in his head – he's met someone he suddenly wants to spend all the time with. Someone he wants to kiss, someone he wants to keep touching. Someone who looks amazing in torn jeans and a worn out shirt, and without them. Someone who makes Dean realize that that isn't important anyway. Someone Dean likes so much he nearly doesn't know what to do with himself.

There's no point in looking for a reason. Some things just are. _This_ just is, they just are.

Dean wants.

“Hey,” he says, and his voice comes out a lot shyer than he thought it would, as if he was scared to treat this as _something_ rather than _just anything_.

They did talk but it is rather difficult to keep going back to that talk, isn't it? Even though the outcome is so easy in every other aspect.

“Yes?” Cas asks, and he turns around after he puffs his pillow up. His dark hair has somehow turned into a mess again, even though sweat and the heat have been holding it down quite nicely today. “Do you want to go shower first, because I can -”

“Would you mind if we slept together?” Dean asks, biting his tongue a second too late. _Fuck_. Here's to hoping that the semi-shitty lighting in the room and the slight distance between them will hide his blush. “I meant, if we shared the bed?”

Castiel smiles – and he rarely smiles like this. Sure, he's smiley all the time, laughing or grinning or smirking (because with him, there's a big difference), but there are special smiles, like this one. When he shows his pearly whites and his lips stretch just a tad bit too much, underlining the slowly forming wrinkles around his eyes.

He looks like the moon.

“Of course,” he says with that smile and Dean feels giddy all over again.

He finds himself nodding. “Awesome,” he says, and he reaches out with his hand. Cas takes it and lets himself be pulled closer, until they're chest to chest. Sappy again, except in the correct sense of the word. “I don't know what this is, but it's awesome.”

Castiel's arms wrap around Dean's waist. “We don't need a name for it right away. It's a happy thing, and that's enough for me.”

“Same here, Cas,” Dean mumbles before they kiss one more time, just a brief meeting of the lips to reassure each other that all of this is real and really happening. Nothing magical about it, except for the way it makes them feel.

Thank God for Claire. Thank God they can move past the mourning because they know she has a happy thing of her own now. Thank _Claire_.

“Shower with me?” Dean asks jokingly, his arms still around Cas.

“Don't push your luck,” Cas laughs and he bows his head, as if trying to hide. “Just let me get my clothes,” he adds in a murmur Dean almost can't make out because it's so shy. Dean laughs and Castiel shakes his head at him and yes, this still feels like they've been together for years, for lifetimes. It's never stopped feeling that way, it's never stopped feeling right.

They spoon in the small, small bed – Cas', because it's closer to the window and fresh air, later in the night. The bed, Dean is certain, was made for teenagers at best, and one at a time, definitely not for two grown men squeezing into it _together_ , but he wouldn't change it for the world. Cas is hugging him from behind the back, their legs touching softly, sheets off – a sacrifice they made to be able to sleep so tight-knit together.

Not talking much because there's not a lot of words needed now, aside from wishing each other a good night's sleep, they doze off pretty soon.

There are no dreams.


	10. epilogue

Dean rises with the sun. He wakes up with dawn, when the sun is still just a slim line stretched across the horizon, thin but a vibrant orange color all the same. This is the day. It has been ages but the camp starts today, finally.

Dean doesn't notice the sun, nor does he think about the camp.

The skin on Cas' back is his sun and this small bed is where he wants to set up camp and never leave.

It feels peaceful. A sort of unbreakable silence that only exists around six in the morning. So Dean breaks it. After all, he always thought he could only break things, but maybe that isn't such a bad thing.

They're lying cuddled together, Cas' back to Dean's chest, Dean's leg carelessly over Cas'.

He places a tentative kiss at the back of Cas' neck, his lips meeting with slightly wet skin from the sleep dampness and the Montana summer. This alone feels like heaven. This alone. Dean cannot and does not want to let that go. The back of Cas' neck feels like summer and home, if home could be a person and not a place.

And a person can. Claire was proof enough of that. She couldn't find home until she found her mother.

Before Dean can think back to Claire and what – who she was, and that she is gone now and managed to leave an empty space behind, Castiel stirs and hums.

“What's wrong?” he mumbles sleepily but does not move. They have their shirts on, but when Dean goes to caress Cas' side, he finds out that his rolled up a bit, revealing inches of skin, just as damp and impossibly warm to the touch.

“Nothin',” Dean mumbles back and places another kiss over Cas' skin, smiling into it. His fingers dig into Cas' flesh, soft enough not to leave a mark but strong enough to wake Cas up for real.

“Oh, is that how it is?” he asks, and even though his voice is still covered in sleep, he turns around to face Dean.

They embrace easily, limbs entangled and arms pulling the other close. When they kiss, it tastes like sleep but neither of them really minds. It is a beautiful morning. They don't even need to discuss any of this: they let it unroll, let it happen. After the initial struggle, everything else feels natural; sharing this bed, kissing, wanting to be naked and skin to skin as if they have been lovers for weeks, months, years, lifetimes.

“Is it awful of me that I want to make love to you right now? I really want to,” Cas confesses with a heavy sigh and his body leaning into Dean's just as heavily.

Dean smiles. “I love that you call it that,” he says.

Castiel frowns but in the soft light of the morning Dean can also see the beginning of a blush. “What now?” he murmurs, embarrassed.

Dean leans in and lays a butterfly kiss somewhere between Cas' cheek and nose. “I love that you call it making love. A month ago I would have just said fucking.”

“That's an ugly word.”

“Nah, I don't think so. I just think it describes something different to what we're doing. Or well, what we're about to do.”

Castiel laughs now, as if he actually agrees. His breath hits Dean's cheeks a little. “You know what _I_ love?” he asks. He's still so quiet, and his eyes are following the line of Dean's lips, Dean can tell.

“Nope,” Dean says and he reaches out, tracing Cas' shoulder with his fingers. His own skin is wonderfully warm and when it meets with Cas', it is electric.

“Well...” Cas trails off. He catches Dean's hand in his and twines their fingers; but his eyes never leave Dean's lips. “Your mouth, for starters,” he says matter-of-factly. “And your voice. Both are very beautiful.”

“Yeah?” Dean asks softly, tired of fighting this, actually welcoming these words even though they make him uncomfortable, like he was pushed into a spotlight, forced. Somehow it feels nice just the same, though.

Castiel nods. “Yeah. And your neck and those freckles. Your hands,” he says and he brings their entwined hands up, kissing Dean's knuckles. Dean still remembers fearing that his hands were too rough and ugly, but Cas has made them feel softer, like they really could be beautiful. “Your arms, too. There's a lot to love.”

“Pretty sure you're biased,” Dean huffs, part embarrassed and part delighted, foolishly happy.

“So what?” Cas says and he leans in until his lips brush Dean's earlobe and Dean shivers. “I also know I'll just love your dick,” Cas whispers and before he can stop it, Dean bursts out laughing.

“God, stop it,” he laughs, rolling over onto his stomach and hiding his face in the pillow. He feels like a teenager all over again, minus the frustration and angst – but better, much better than that.

“Fine, I'll stop _talking_ about it,” Cas sighs, “but I still need to _do_ something about it. I know I'll love it too much not to.”

It's Cas now, peppering Dean's shoulders with kisses of varying intensity. Cas is completely awake now, bright and fresh, and under his touches, Dean feels seen through and through, wholly. It is terrifying and fulfilling, to be seen in such a way and to be so vulnerable, so Dean keeps hiding his face, especially as his amusement dies and pleasure replaces it.

Castiel moves his tongue down Dean's back: he places open-mouthed kisses across his shoulder blades, as freckled as his face, and now Cas' lips connect them in a zig-zag sloppy line; he burises his nose in Dean's skin as he gets to his lower back, ever so slowly; his tongue touches Dean's skin just above his ass, wet and precise. Dean's clutching the pillow by the end of it, trying his best to breathe evenly, but it's difficult to keep still and not shiver.

Castiel's fingers skim down Dean's sides and then grip him by the hips. His tongue moves back up until he's mouthing at Dean's shoulder blades again.

“Tell me what makes you come, Dean,” he says into his skin, his voice lower than usual. There's nothing left of _I want to make love to you_ part.

“Fuck,” Dean breathes out, his body trembling momentarily before he wills it to stay still. “You're gettin' there, I can tell you that, Cas.”

“Come on, tell me,” Castiel presses. It's playful and it's an act of seduction at the same time. Dean cannot resist, not that he really wants to. He finally looks back at Cas, his face now fully awake and as beautiful as ever, softer around its rough edges. There's a slight layer of stubble around his mouth and it makes him look like a bad boy. Dean might just be in a love, a little bit.

Castiel is looking at him expectantly and Dean swallows hard before he can make himself speak.

“I think it would make me come if you -” he almost says the ugly word, but catches it, “made love to me,” he breathes out and suddenly he understands why this phrase is beautiful, because it makes him shiver and want to close his eyes.

Dean has never said these words in a situation like this before. They've always sounded cheesy and in a way they still do, but the morning is so sweet and warm and they are together and Dean doesn't want to call it fucking.

Castiel smiles down at him and he helps Dean turn around and onto his back. So he's exposed now, but it feels okay.

“Let's do that. I want to make you come,” Cas says, once again matter-of-factly, except with a smile and a glow to his eyes, treacherous and promising at the same time.

Dean wants to say, _Well, I wanna make you come too_ , but instead, what flies out of his mouth is, “If you keep talkin' to me like that, you won't have to try very hard.”

They are talking quietly even though they're alone in the cabin and the wood settles around them, protecting them. Yet they don't want to be loud, not yet at least, because the intimacy here is tangible. Dean could grab it with his shaky hands.

Instead of answering, Cas finally captures Dean's mouth in a proper kiss, pressing and leaning into it, lining his body up against Dean's until he softly lies down on him, holding himself up only minimally.

Dean sighs into Cas' mouth and he wraps his arms around him, pulls him close until Cas gives in and stops holding himself up. They are a bundle of limbs, two bodies pressed tight together, hands everywhere. A touch in exchange for two: arms and shoulders and backs and sides and softly, ever so softly as they shift to lie side by side, chests and stomachs.

Dean smiles when Cas touches his belly with the tips of his fingers, but he doesn't break the kiss to say anything.

They spend a while like this and Dean slowly but surely grows rock hard, and Cas too.

Dean's hands reach out and he presses his hands against Cas' back, runs them down and to his ass, palms flat against the cheeks. His hips roll and he groans when their erections meet halfway, brushing a little.

“Mhm,” Cas hums and he lets his own hips roll forward and rub against Dean's body.

The bed suddenly feels too small: Dean wants to lie on it spread-eagled and he wants to be stretched across it and over Cas, but it is too tiny.

Not that he would actually ever complain about having to stay this close, though.

With closed eyes, Dean slowly hooks his leg over Cas' hip and finally breaks the kiss, taking Cas' hand to his mouth instead. He works each finger carefully, wetting it with a thick layer of saliva. Not a word is uttered now, nor afterward. But Dean watches Cas' face intently as Cas reaches down, slips his hand under Dean's hooked leg, and finally, finally runs his fingers over Dean's rim.

Dean's body pulses at that touch but he never stops looking into those blue eyes. Cas smiles, a soft little grin that brings one corner of his mouth up. And then one of his fingers slowly, slowly goes in, just a little bit. Dean breathes out and shuffles. It hasn't been _that_ long, he likes hooking up, but it's been a while since he was with another man. Besides, everything feels new with Castiel.

After a second, he nods.

Castiel's finger goes deeper and moves, so gently, and Dean hasn't been this cared for in a long, long time. Of course it feels amazing.

Cas slowly works him open, taking his time with every move. Dean doesn't even notice when it happens, but he ends up back on his back on the small bed, Cas squeezed between his legs, stretching him open slowly but without stopping.

He doesn't stop when Dean's breathing grows uneven, he doesn't stop when Dean turns into a mess, especially when Cas finally finds Dean's prostate and Dean groans, loud now. After minutes of seemingly endless teasing, this nearly breaks him apart.

And Cas doesn't stop.

“Cas,” Dean says, but it's more of a warning that he will come sooner rather than later if Cas doesn't cut it out.

“Yes?” Cas asks, stopping with his fingers buried deep, deep inside Dean, looking up. Almost innocently.

Dean would feel bad about blushing but you can't even tell that he _is_ – he is aroused and flushed as it is. “I thought you wanted to...” But he trails off.

He can't say anything about making love right now. Cas' fingers have been too relentless and all Dean can think about is fucking, good old fashioned fucking that will make the bed rattle violently.

All he can think about. Cas. Inside him. Fucking him. Deep and good and proper and Dean still begging for more. He is about ready to start the begging if the fucking doesn't happen _now_.

This is not just about the need to get fucked, bent over and filled to the very brim; this is about Cas doing it. Dean would – god, the lengths Dean would go to make it happen.

Suddenly, he remembers the dream. They stained every surface and moved together, and Dean thinks about all that, about all those movements and thrusts and sounds in a span of a few seconds. He sighs deeply, squirms a little. He doesn't want to keep imagining, he doesn't want to keep _dreaming_. This is real, this is here, Cas is here. About to fuck him, _make love to him_ if you will, though there's a lot more animal and a lot less human in Dean now.

“I do,” Cas breathes out and he moves his fingers, stretching a little bit more, a little bit tighter. Even though Cas calls it making love, he talks absolute filth. “But you're so tight, so tight for me, Dean, and I want to make this work.”

“I'm okay,” Dean squeezes out, instead of squeezing around Cas' fingers and riding them, though God, he wants to. “I'm okay.”

Another smile, half-assed. “Okay. Okay,” Cas repeats and slowly, he removes his fingers from Dean. This is exploration as much as it is sex.

Castiel fits in between Dean's legs, though. Dean has had partners who slid between his legs – women, too – to do this, but none of them fit quite like this: they filled the space but that was about it. Cas is perfect. Cas' hands, legs, his entire waist fits in the lock of Dean's thighs like he was made to be there. And Dean opens his legs willingly for him, hooks his heels over Cas' back. _Want more_. To be able to want more; to be granted more.

“I don't have any condoms,” Cas says suddenly, “I didn't think there's be anyone who has any – I was – ”

“I go to get tested regularly,” Dean cuts him off with a lump in his throat. “I'm clean. You…?”

Cas nods. “Yes,” he says, obviously relieved. “Are you okay with…?”

“God, yes,” Dean laughs nervously, his fingers clutching the sheets subconsciously. The sole idea of Cas being inside him without a piece of plastic between them is… oh, God. That also hasn't happened in quite a while, just skin on skin, pure friction.

And then, suddenly, it is happening.

Castiel is careful about this as well – he takes his cock in his hand and with the other, he pushes Dean's thighs apart a little more. He guides his dick in, slowly, carefully, and Dean forgets how to breathe.

Dean has been stretched open properly, though, with fingers and arousal equally. Though there's pressure that seems like too much at first, he relaxes almost immediately into it and all that's left is the feeling of being _full_. Amazingly so.

When Cas is all the way in, he stops, holding himself up on his hands, lingering over Dean, breathing heavily. “Let me know when -”

“'m good, perfect, please,” Dean interrupts him, nodding feverishly, impatient to move against Cas, _now_.

Cas moves, slowly, pulling out a little. They both breathe out and Cas curses. “I'm trying to go slow, I just want – I want this to last, I really -”

“ _Fuck_ me,” Dean says finally.

A part of him expects rejection because of the word he used. And Cas does look at him questioningly, but then he understands; Dean needs this, and Cas wants to give. It takes a second of consideration, trying to find the balance between passionate and unnecessarily rough, but in the end, Cas nods.

Without another word, Cas moves again – forward this time, back inside, with much more force. It makes Dean move on the bed and it is aggressive and yet exactly what Dean wanted, needed. He moans, forgetting the quietness of the previous moments.

“Like that?” Cas asks quietly, one of his hands now flat against Dean's chest as if pushing him down.

“Yes,” Dean exclaims right away and he shuffles a little, opens his legs around Cas for better access, opening up completely. This is his most vulnerable as far as physicality is concerned, and he is not afraid.

Looking at him, Castiel pulls out and thrusts in again, finally setting a pace – not too fast, just perfect, just perfect to rattle the bed like Dean wanted.

“Take my hands,” Dean groans between a thrust and a moan as he holds his arms up above his head. “My wrists.”

“Fuck,” Castiel squeezes out, his eyes fluttering closed for a second and then at Dean's palms. “Are you sure?”

“Please.”

Castiel stops moving for a second, buried deep inside Dean, his pubic hair tickling Dean's inner thighs. He shuffles, taking Dean's wrists in his hands. Still moving slowly, he puts more of his weight on Dean. He seems to struggle with this – to hold himself up he would have to squeeze Dean's wrists harder, to lie down on Dean like this would mean crushing him.

Dean nods. _Come on_ , he seems to say. He cock is aching for more, the tip of it now brushing against Castiel's belly because they're pressed too close together.

Castiel starts moving again and as he does, his pace grows a little more relentless, a little more chaotic. Dean whimpers as the pressure on his wrists grows and Cas' dick hits his prostate once, twice, three times and then it never ends, God, make it so it never ends.

The room is filled with heavy breathing. The summer sun has warmed the curtains and therefore the room, and their bodies have warmed up as well – sweat starts to glisten on their skin, slippery.

This is everything. Cas is _fucking_ him, holding him down and Dean doesn't want to escape: there is a clear knowledge that Cas would let him go immediately should he want to be released, and the clear knowledge of wanting to stay. The voluntary submission to compromise and to bliss. It feels so, so good to be taken like this: fast and passionate, yet loving and careful.

They won't hurt each other. This is a fact Dean sees clear as day when Cas thrusts into him.

“I'm trying -” Castiel says after a few moments filled with grunts and breathing only, heavy and shallow, “But I can't – not much longer, I -”

“Yeah, Cas,” Dean says, his voice hoarse, “Come inside me, okay? Come on.”

“Is it okay if I – go a little more -”

“Fuck. Yes.”

Castiel's pace grows faster and his movements less coordinated and Dean wants to _scream_ because how can something be too much and not enough at the same time? He wants to scream and close his eyes and he wants to die like this, but he makes himself stay aware, fully aware, so he can watch Cas' face. It scrunches up and his eyes close, the wrinkle between his eyebrows comes out, and he is quiet, so quiet when he comes.

Cas doesn't make a single sound, as if all of it got stuck at the back of his throat. He only grunts after a few seconds, and Dean feels so, so warm inside, but so empty and undone at the same time – Cas has stopped moving and he's still holding Dean's wrists tight. He is still desperate to come.

“Cas,” Dean gasps, and Cas immediately releases Dean's hands without having to be told. “It's okay. You can watch me if you want.”

“I wanted to come with you,” Cas pants as he slowly pulls out. “I'm gonna -” without finishing, he sits back on his heels and lean back over Dean, and without warning, he sinks his fingers in again, just two but they are enough.

As Dean wraps his trembling hand around his cock, Cas starts brushing his prostate with his middle finger, merciless.

It takes an embarrassingly short amount of time for Dean to come now, but in his defense, he rides that high for a long time: Cas doesn't pull his fingers out until Dean asks him to in a trembling, quiet voice, and they're both a _mess_ by the time he finally comes down from it.

He remembers every second of it; he remembers it much better than he remembered the dream. They have topped the fantasy, topped it a billion times. They top it a quadrillion times when they lean towards each other afterward, to kiss, to lie in each other's arms for a little while.

“I should go shower,” Dean says after a little while, when it's no longer early morning. (So not such a little while, perhaps.)

It is suddenly a terrifying thought that soon enough, this place will be swarmed with teenagers, half of them probably at their rebellious stage, and he'll have to do arts and crafts, take them swimming – oh, the lake. Dean wonders if the lake will still be as magical with Claire gone. It could be, with Cas.

“Or we could go for a swim before everyone gets here,” Dean adds.

“Charlie would kill us if we disappeared,” Cas protests, tracing figures and constellations with his fingers across Dean's still-damp skin. “Besides, I can't swim.

“Dude, are you serious?” Dean asks, shocked, turning towards him at least halfway. “But we went in yesterday and -”

“And I clung to you for dear life. I couldn't not. You were so happy and I wanted to kiss you.” Castiel smiles. “There's a lot you don't know about me, huh?”

“Well, you're gonna have to tell me eventually. You have two weeks.”

“I'd argue that I have much, much longer,” Cas says quietly, perhaps a little sentimentally, and it fills Dean's chest up with an emotion he hasn't encountered in a long time; one that he doesn't know how to react to. For the moment, he chooses not to, and it's good to know that Cas won't mind.

“I have two weeks to teach you how to swim, then,” he says just as quietly, almost apologetically. “Shower it is, then.”

“I have one question for you,” Cas pipes up, playful again. Dean raises his eyebrow. “How exactly do you plan on getting to the showers with come running down your thighs?”

 

 

///

 

 

They are all gathered around the campfire and it’s not nearly as pitiful as last time. They're still not very good at roasting the marshmallows they've got, but hey. They're there, all of them – that is, even the campers. Eleven of them in total, so it feels more like an evened-out group of friends, one half of them a little bit older than the others.

But they are here. And it feels wonderful.

(And you can't help but wonder how many of the counselors are thinking about Claire, unbeknownst to the campers, and how much they wish she were sitting there with them. Probably all of them, despite their satisfied smiles as they share stories, both personal and made up. You can miss someone and still wear a smile. It is not against the rules.)

“Let's do ghost stories,” one of the campers says, a chubby Asian American girl named Anna May whose parents gave her a rainbow-colored headband as a 'be safe, good luck' present before they drove off earlier that afternoon. (Five minutes upon arriving she declared, “I'm here to stay and ready to be _gay_ ,” which really won all of their hearts over immediately.)

“Yes!” exclaims Ben – he has been quiet all afternoon, obviously introverted, and even if Dean wasn't sold on the idea of ghost stories around a campfire, this would have made him latch onto it anyway. Ben has a story to him, though he hasn't shared it yet.

“Cas here is an excellent storyteller,” he announces and nudges Cas, who is sitting right next to him. Their knees have been bumping together all night long and they have exchanged a shameful amount of not-so-secret smiles: everyone probably knows they're into each other by now, and, well, they aren't wrong.

Cas looks at Dean like he wants to kill him for a second, but then his eyes glow – like they seem to every time he gets an idea. He smiles at Dean.

The night offers a fake disguise: everyone sees it but they kid themselves that they don't when Cas grabs Dean's hand and rests it on his knee, rubbing his thumb over Dean's knuckles. “Okay,” he says.

“Make it super scary,” Charlie tells him, half-serious.

“Or maybe like, semi-scary,” Alex pipes up, already inching closer to Cas even though she's sitting across from him, as if they'd gotten to the intense part already. She's one of the campers as well – she is Claire's age and Dean likes to think that they would get along, even though her hair is the opposite of blonde.

“It's more of a legend than a scary story, really,” Cas says with a casual shrug of his shoulder. “Did you know that these woods were rumored to be haunted for a while?”

“Oh, God,” Anna May groans quietly. She also inches closer.

Castiel smiles. “Not everyone who passed encountered her, but some have. There was a girl, about your age, I'd say… Lost in the woods, looking for her mother, stuck between worlds, young on the outside but dead on the inside, you see? She was not dangerous. She just wanted help, needed help. She wanted to find peace, desperately, but the woods never offered it. So she wandered this area, looking for a stranger to help her. Sometimes, she wailed and begged them. Sometimes, she haunted them. Sometimes, she froze them in time.”

“Wait, past tense? So the woods aren't _really_ haunted?”

“Not anymore, no,” Charlie answers for Cas, looking away as Dorothy drapes her hand across her shoulders. They are an unfinished business still, but they keep shifting closer and closer to each other. _Jump kiss live_ , Dean wants to tell them. “But she used to.”

“You guys sound like you actually _saw_ some sort of ghost,” Ben says, doubtful.

It's Cas that manages to muster up a smile. “Now, that would be ridiculous,” he says. “Wouldn't it?”

**Author's Note:**

> And that's a wrap!
> 
> Thank you so very much for reading. I really, really hope you enjoyed this little thing. If you want to talk, you can find me on Tumblr [@deanghostchester](http://deanghostchester.tumblr.com). Speaking of which, I have an inspo tag for this fic [here](http://deanghostchester.tumblr.com/tagged/cref), if you're into that sort of thing.
> 
> And with that, I bid you adieu. See you next year! ♥


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